“God pardon their souls,” murmured the unknown.

“That’s as He likes,” said Martin, “and no affair of mine; I had only to do with their bodies and—­” At this moment Foy groaned, sat up and asked for something to drink.

Martin gave him water from the pitcher.

“Where am I?” he asked, and he told him.

“Martin, old fellow,” said Foy in an uncertain voice, “we are in a very bad way, but as we have lived through this”—­here his characteristic hopefulness asserted itself—­“I believe, I believe that we shall live through the rest.”

“Yes, young sir,” echoed the thin, faint notes out of the darkness beyond the bars, “I believe, too, that you will live through the rest, and I am praying that it may be so.”

“Who is that?” asked Foy drowsily.

“Another prisoner,” answered Martin.

“A prisoner who will soon be free,” murmured the voice again through the blackness, for by now night had fallen, and no light came from the hole above.

Then Foy fell into sleep or stupor, and there was silence for a long while, until they heard the bolts and bars of the door of the dungeon creaking, and the glint of a lantern appeared floating on the gloom.  Several men tramped down the narrow gangway, and one of them, unlocking their cage, entered, filled the jug of water from a leathern jack, and threw down some loaves of black bread and pieces of stockfish, as food is thrown to dogs.  Having examined the pair of them he grunted and went away, little knowing how near he had been to death, for the heart of Martin was mad.  But he let him go.  Then the door of the next cell was opened, and a man said, “Come out.  It is time.”

“It is time and I am ready,” answered the thin voice.  “Good-bye, friends, God be with you.”

“Good-bye, lady,” answered Martin; “may you soon be with God.”  Then he added, by an afterthought, “What is your name?  I should like to know.”

“Mary,” she replied, and began to sing a hymn, and so, still singing the hymn, she passed away to her death.  They never saw her face, they never learned who she might be, this poor girl who was but an item among the countless victims of perhaps the most hideous tyranny that the world has ever known—­one of Alva’s slaughtered sixty thousand.  But many years afterwards, when Foy was a rich man in a freer land, he built a church and named it Mary’s kirk.

The long night wore away in silence, broken only by the groans and prayers of prisoners in dens upon the same floor, or with the solemn rhythm of hymns sung by those above, till at length the light, creeping through the dungeon lattices, told them that it was morning.  At its first ray Martin awoke much refreshed, for even there his health and weariness had brought sleep to him.  Foy also awoke, stiff and sore, but in his right mind and very hungry.  Then Martin found the loaves and the stockfish, and they filled themselves, washing down the meal with water, after which he dressed Foy’s wounds, making a poultice for them out of the crumb of the bread, and doctored his own bruises as best he could.