As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine’s whistle.  They were coming now if they came at all!  In spite of himself, his hope revived.  To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened.

He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him.

“John!” she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him.

His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes.  Words of protest trembled on his lips.  This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side.

“John—­” she cried again, and held out her arms.

“Do not speak—­I know,” he said.

Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her.

“I know, dear!” he repeated.

“We could do nothing!” she gasped.

“You have done everything that love and devotion could do!”

She looked up into his face.

“You are not afraid?” she whispered, clinging to him.

“I think not,” he said simply.

“You are very brave, John—­I shall try to be brave, also.”

“My dear, dear Elizabeth!” he murmured sadly, and they were silent.

Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy.

“The governor would do nothing, John,” Elizabeth faltered at length.

“I understand, dear,” he said tenderly.

“He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary.  The governor had left town; he never intended to see us!  To reach this end—­when nothing can be done—­” Her eyes grew wide with horror.

He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his.

“There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!”

“No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks—­don’t send me away, John!” she entreated.

“It will be easier—­”

Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast.  It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now.  What a wreck he had made of her life—­what infinite compassion and pity he felt!  He held her closer.

“What is it, dear?” she asked.

But he could not translate his feeling into words.

“Oh, if there were only something we could do!” she moaned.

“Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength!  You say that I am brave!  Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!”