Rosenthal’s man bobbed his head.  He had not lifted his hat to the priest, and seemed to regard him with suspicion.

“What sort of a looking woman is she?” continued the priest.

“Oh, the same old kind; they’re all alike.  Nothing to say—­too smart for that.  I guess she stole it, all right.  All I could get out of her was that she was an Englishwoman, but she didn’t look it.”

The priest lowered his head, an expression of suddenly awakened interest on his face.  “May I see her?” he asked, in an eager tone.

“Why, sure!  Bunky, take Father Cruse down.  He wants to talk to that Englishwoman.”

To most unfortunates, whether innocent or guilty, the row of polished steel bars which open and close upon those in the grip of the law, are poised rifles awaiting the order to fire.  To a woman like Lady Barbara, these guarded a dark and loathsome tomb, in which her last hope lay buried.  That she had not deserved the punishment meted out to her did not soothe her agony.  She had deserved none of Dalton’s cruelty, and yet she had withered under its lash.  This was the end; beyond, lay only a slow, lingering death, with her torture increasing as the hours crept on.

The sound of the turnkey’s hand on the lock roused her to consciousness.

“Bring her outside where I can talk to her,” said Father Cruse, pointing to a bench in the corridor.

She followed the guard mechanically, as a whipped spaniel follows its master, her steps dragging, her body trembling, her head bowed as if awaiting some new humiliation.  She had no strength to resist.  Something in the priest’s quiet, in the way he trod beside her, seemed to have reassured her, for as she sank on the bench beside him, she leaned over, laid one hand on his sleeve, and asked feebly:  “Are they going to let me go?”

“That I cannot say, my good woman; I can only hope so.”  He looked toward the guard.  “Better leave us for a while, Bunky.”  The turnkey touched his cap and mounted the narrow iron steps to the room above.

Father Cruse waited until the footsteps had ceased to echo in the corridor, and then turned to Lady Barbara.  “And now tell me something about yourself; have you no friends you can send for?  I will see they get your message.  The captain told me you were English.  Is this true?”

She had withdrawn her hand and now sat with averted face, the faint flicker of hope his presence had enkindled extinguished by his evasive answer.  Only when he repeated the question did she reply, and then in a mere whisper, without lifting her head:  “Yes, I am English.”

“And your people, are they where you can reach them?”

She did not answer; there was nothing to be gained by yielding to his curiosity.  Nor did she intend to reply to any more of his questions.  He was only one of those kind priests who looked after the poor and whose sympathy, however well meant, would be of little value.  If she told him how cruel had been the wrong done her, and how unjust had been her arrest, it would make no difference; he could not help her.