She was re-emerging now; and either shame lay far below, a cast-off weed in the depths, or shame had driven out shame as fire drives out fire.  Her back was burning; her tongue was parched; her eyes were seared as they half opened upon the crowd.  The grinning faces—­the mouths pulled awry, mocking a sorrow they did not understand—­these were meaningless to her.  She did not, in any real sense, behold them.  Her misery was a sea about her, and in the trough of it she looked up, seeking one face.

—­And why not?  It had shone far above her as a god’s; but she had been sucked down as deep again, and there is an extreme of degradation may meet even a god’s altitude on equal terms.  Stark mortal, stark god—­its limit of suffering past, humanity joins the celestial, clasping its knees.

Of a sudden, turning her eyes a little to the left, she saw him.

He had come at a strolling pace across the square, with Manasseh and the deputy-beadle walking wide beside him, and the Court-house rabble at his heels, but keeping, in spite of themselves, a respectful distance.  At the stocks he faced about, and they halted on the instant, as though he had spoken a word of command.  He smiled, seated himself leisurably at the end of the bench on Ruth Josselin’s left, and extended a leg for Manasseh to draw off its riding-boot.  At the back of the crowd a few voices chattered, but within the semicircle a hush had fallen.

It was then that she turned her eyes and saw him.

How came he here?  What was he doing? . . .  She could not comprehend at all.  Only she felt her heart leap within her and stand still, as like a warm flood the consciousness of his presence stole through her, poured over her, soothing away for the moment all physical anguish.  She sat very still, her hands in her lap; afraid to move, afraid even to look again.  This consciousness—­it should have been shame, but it held no shame at all.  It was hope.  It came near, very near, to bliss.

She was aware in a dull way of some one unlocking and lifting the upper beam of the stocks.  Were they releasing her?  Surely her sentence had been for five hours?—­surely her faintness could not have lasted so long!  This could not be the end?  She did not wish to be released.  She would not know what to do, where to go, when they set her free.  She must walk home through the town, and that would be worst of all.

Or perhaps he was commanding them to release her? . . .  No; the beam creaked and dropped into place again.  A moment ago his voice had been speaking; speaking very cheerfully, not to her.  Now it was silent.  After some minutes she gathered courage to turn her eyes again.

Captain Vyell sat with his legs in durance.  They were very shapely legs, cased in stockings of flesh-coloured silk with crimson knee-ties.  He sat in perfect patience, and rolled a tobacco-leaf between his fingers.  At his shoulder stood Manasseh like a statue, with face immobile as Marble—­black marble—­and a tinder-box ready in his hand.