Another request.  Could Vivie see or communicate with Graefin von Stachelberg?—­with Pasteur Walcker?

Here the police agent intervened—­“Nothing of the kind!  You’re not going to hold a salon here.  Far too many concessions already.  Much more fuss and trouble, and I shall take you back to the Kommandantur and report.  Write your letter to the All Highest, who may deign to receive it.  As to Pastor Walcker, he shall come to-morrow, Sunday, to prepare the Englishman for his death, on Monday—­”

Vivie wrote her letter—­probably in very incoherent language.  It was handed to the German police agent.  He smiled sardonically as he took it in his horny hand with its dirty broken nails.  The Governor General disliked these appeals to the All Highest.  Indeed, in most cases executions that were intended to take place were only announced at the same time as the condemnation, to obviate the worry of these appeals.  Besides, he knew the Emperor had left that morning for Charleville, after having bestowed several decorations on the police officials who told him they had just frustrated an English plot for his assassination.

Vivie and Bertie were at length alone, for the police agent was bored, couldn’t understand their talk, and gave himself an afternoon off.  In this prison of Saint-Gilles, the cells were in many ways superior to those of English prisons.  They were well lit through a long window, not so high up but that by standing on a chair you could look out on the prison garden.  Through this window the rays of the sun could penetrate into and light up the cell.  There was no unpleasant smell—­one of the horrors of Holloway.  The floor was a polished parquet.  The bed was comfortable.  There was a table, even a book-shelf.  The toilet arrangements were in no way repulsive or obvious.

Vivie insisted on Bertie lying down on the bed; she would sit on the chair by his side.  He must be so exhausted....

“And what about you, miss?  I’ll lay you ain’t slept these last three nights. What a mess I’ve made of the ’ole thing!”

“Bertie! Why did you do this? Why did you risk your life to come here; oh why, oh why?” wailed Vivie.

“Because I loved you, because I’ve always loved you, better’n any one else on earth—­since I was a boy of fourteen and you spoke so kind to me and encouraged me to get on and improve myself; and giv’ me books, and encouraged me about me cricket.  I suppose I’m going to die, so I ain’t got any shame about tellin’ you all this.  Though if I thought I was goin’ to live, I’d cut my tongue out sooner’n offend you—­Oh,”—­he gave a kind of groan—­“When the news come about Mrs. Warren bein’ dead an’ you p’raps without money and at the mercy of these Germans ... well!—­all I wonder at is I didn’t steal an airyplane, and come in that.  I tell you I had to exercise great self-control to stay week after week fiddling with the food distribution and pretendin’ to be an American....