His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the jailor followed by another person muffled up in a large riding cloak.  “A stranger,” he said, “wished to exchange a few words in private with the prisoner.”

Anthony rose from his humble bed, and asked in subdued tones, “to whom he had the honor of speaking?”

“To a sincere friend, Anthony Hurdlestone—­one who cannot believe you guilty of the dreadful crime of murder.”

The sound of that voice, though months had passed away since its musical tones had vibrated on his ear, thrilled to the soul of the prisoner.

“Miss Whitmore!” he cried, in an extasy of joy; and sinking at her feet, he seized her hands, and pressing them to his lips and heart burst into an agony of tears.

“Anthony!” said Juliet, placing her hand upon his shoulder, as he sat at her feet with his face upturned and his eyes suffused in tears, gazing tenderly upon her; “I came here to-night to ask you one simple question.  With many tears I gained my father’s consent to this unusual step.  Not without many severe mental struggles I overcame the feelings of maiden shame, and placed myself in this painful situation in order to receive from your own lips an answer which might satisfy the intense anxiety that presses upon my mind.  As you value your own and my eternal peace, I charge you, Anthony, to answer me truly—­as truly as if you stood before the bar of God, and the eye of the Great Searcher of hearts was upon you; Did you murder your unhappy father?”

“As I hope for salvation, I am as ignorant of the real perpetrators of the deed as you are.”

“Both directly and indirectly?”

“The whole affair is involved in mystery.  I have, of course, my doubts and surmises.  These I must not name, lest I might accuse persons who like myself are innocent of the offence.  Hear me, Juliet Whitmore! while I raise this fettered right hand to heaven, and swear by that awful Judge before whose dread tribunal I must in a few hours appear, that I am guiltless of the crime for which at the age of one-and-twenty, in the first bloom of youth and manhood, I am condemned to die!”

There was a slight convulsion of the features as he uttered the last words, and his lips quivered for a moment.  Nature asserted her right over her sentient creature; and the thoughts of death awoke at that moment a strange conflict in his breast.  So young—­so highly gifted—­so tenderly beloved; it was indeed hard to die—­to die a death of infamy, amidst the curses and execrations of an insulting mob.  Oh, how gladly would he have seen the bitter cup pass from his lips!

Juliet regarded her unhappy lover with a sad and searching glance.  But innocence is strong; he shrunk not from the encounter.  His eyes were raised to hers in confidence and love, and the glow of conscious worth irradiated his wan and wasted features.  Alas! what years of sorrow had been compressed into one short week!