And Bertie, at a loss for a parallel, ceased speaking for a time, and gulped down the sobs that were mastering him.

Then, after this pause—­“I haven’t a word to say against Nance.  No one could ’a bin a better wife.  I know, miss, if you get away from here you’ll look after her and my kids?  I ain’t bin much of a father to ’em lately.  P’raps this is a punishment for neglecting my home duties—­As they used to say to you when you was Suffragin’.”  He gave a bitter laugh—­“Two such nice kids....  I ain’t seen ’em since last February twelve-month ... more’n a year ago ...  I got a bit of leave then....  There’s little Vivie—­the one we called after you....  She’s growin’ up so pretty ... and Bert!  ’E’ll be a bigger and a better man than me, some day.  ’E’s started in life with better chances.  I ’ope ’e’ll be a cricketer.  There’s no game comes up to cricket, in my opinion...”

At this juncture, the Belgian Directeur of the jail opened the door and asked Vivie to follow him, telling Bertie she would return in the afternoon.  At the same time, a warder escorting two good conduct prisoners who did the food distribution proceeded to place quite an appetizing meal in Bertie’s cell.  “Dear miss,” said the Directeur in French, “You are so wise, I know, you will do what I wish...?”

(Vivie bowed.)

“I shall not send you back to the Kommandantur.  I will take that on myself.  But I must regard you while here as my prisoner”—­he smiled sadly—­“Come with me.  I will give you a nice cell where you shall eat and sleep, and—­yes—­and my wife shall come and see you...”

In the evening of that day, Vivie was led back to Bertie’s cell.  There she found kind Pasteur Walcker.  In some way he had heard of Bertie’s condemnation—­perhaps seen it posted up on a Red Placard—­and in his quiet assumption that whatever he did was right, had not waited for an official summons but had presented himself at the prison of Saint-Gilles and asked to see the Directeur.  He constituted himself Bertie’s spiritual director from that time onwards....  He spoke very little English but he was there more to sympathize than to preach—­

“Ce n’est pas, chere Mamselle que je suis venu le troubler sur les questions de religion.  J’ai voulu le rassurer—­et vous aussi—­que j’ai deja mis en train tous les precedes possibles, et que je connais, pour obtenir sa grace....  But,” he went on, “I have spoken to the prison doctor and begged him meantime to give the poor young man an injection or a dose of something to make him sleep a little while...”

Then he withdrew.

The daylight turned pink and faded to grey whilst Vivie sat by the bed holding the left hand of the sleeping man.  Exhausted with emotion, she dropped off to sleep herself, slid off the chair on to the parquet, laid her head on the angle of his pillow and slept likewise....