"It's just as well, Mary," he said. "Perhaps I couldn't have saved myself if I'd known; and it might be--yes, it might be that if I had said what was in my heart---- No, it's just as well! It's just as well!"

"Time's up!" said the warder.

"Let me stay a little longer," pleaded Mary.

"Against rules!" was the reply. "Time's up!"

"Paul, lean down your head again."

She kissed him pa.s.sionately, and then whispered in his ear: "All hope's not gone even yet, Paul."

"I want no King's Pardon," said Paul almost bitterly. "I wouldn't have it!"

"It's not that. I have been trying and trying, and my father has been trying----"

"You mean----"

"I mean that he's with us at Brunford, Paul. He's at your house. He has been working night and day, and, and----"

The warder opened the door. "This way, please, Miss!"

"Don't give up, Paul!" she cried. "And remember this, I'm working and praying for you, and father is working and praying for you. It may--oh! it may end in nothing; and I dare not say more, but Paul, Paul----"

Again Paul was alone. Mary's kisses were still warm upon his lips. He felt her breath upon his face. Her presence pervaded the room even although she was gone--Mary, whom he loved like his own life! It was not as though his sister had been to see him at all. It was still Mary, the woman he loved as his wife!

Day followed day, and no further news reached him. Eagerly he had listened to every echoing footstep in the corridor. Feverishly he had watched the face of the warder who had brought him food. Like one who had hoped against hope, he had at stated times scanned the faces of other prisoners when he had been allowed to go for exercise into the prison yard. But he heard nothing, saw nothing which could give him hope.

One night the chaplain entered his cell, and Paul saw, from the look on the man's face, of what he was thinking.

"It's to be to-morrow, isn't it?" he said.

The chaplain nodded and was silent.

"What o'clock is it now?"

"Half-past three."

"And what time to-morrow?"

"Early. I don't know the exact hour."

"Is it known outside--I mean, does the world know?"

"I don't know; I expect so."

"Ah," said Paul. "She will come to-night; so will he. But mother cannot come--no, of course she cannot come; but I am glad she knows nothing."

"My brother," said the chaplain, "may I not speak to you about higher things? Remember that in a few hours----"

"Stop!" said Paul. "It's good of you to come, and I'm afraid that in the past I've sometimes spoken rudely to you. I have regarded you as one who has done his duty, just as the warders have done theirs; and just as they are paid to lock the door upon me and bring me food at stated intervals, so you've been paid to utter your shibboleths and to say your prayers. But perhaps you've meant all right. Still, nothing that you can say would help me. I have no confession to make to you, not a word, except that I adhere to what I said in the courts: I am absolutely innocent of this murder. There's no crime on my soul!"

"But are you ready to meet your G.o.d?" said the chaplain.

"Pardon me," said Paul, and his voice quivered with emotion, "but that's a subject too sacred to talk about. Hark! what's that?"

There was a sound of hammering outside.

"Does it mean--that?"

Again the chaplain nodded. "Think, my brother----"

"No, no," said Paul. "If I am soon to meet G.o.d face to face, as you say, well then--no, I'm neither ashamed nor afraid; that is, as you're regarding it. I am ashamed--but, there, you could not understand.

Please leave me, will you?"

Again there was a dull sound of the impact of the head of a hammer upon the head of a nail outside.

Silence reigned over Brunford, and for a wonder the night was clear.

Overhead unnumbered stars shone brightly. The wind came from the sea, and more than one declared that they felt the salt upon their lips. In spite of this, however, gloom rested upon the town. It had gone forth, that, on the following morning Paul Stepaside was to be hanged, and hundreds, as they trod the granite pavements of the streets, seemed to be trying to walk noiselessly. At almost every corner groups of men were to be seen evidently discussing the news they had heard.

"He was a rare fine lad, after all, ay, he wur. I canna think, in spite of everything, as 'ow he did it. He wur noan that sort."

"Ay, but the judge and jury, after hearing all th' evidence, and after hearing one of the grandest speeches ever made in Manchester, found him guilty. Ay, and it wur a grand speech, too; I heerd every word on it, and I shall never forgeet it to my dying day. When he finished I said, 'He's saved hissen!' I thowt as no judge and jury in the warld would ever condemn a man after that. It seemed to me as though he had knocked Bakewell's legs from right under him, and I nearly shouted out loud."

"Ah, but he could not get over th' judge; nay, the judge seemed to have made up his mind, and his summing up were just terrible. Mark you, I've heard a lot of complaints about it. You know what Paul said after he were condemned? He said as 'ow the judge's summing up might have been another speech by the counsel for the prosecution; and I watched the judge's face when he said it, and I tell you he went as white as a sheet. But theer, 'tis done, and tomorrow morning he'll have to stand afore the Judgment Seat of G.o.d!"

"'Twould be terrible, wouldn't it, if he didn't do it after all?

S'posing it should turn out that someone else did it!"

"But how could it be, man? 'Twere that knife. Who could ha' got it?

Paul never allowed onybody to get into the office. The door was locked, the window was locked. No, no! Ay, but it's terrible!"

"Haaf-past seven, as I've heerd, it's going to take place," said another.

"Nay, haaf-past eight."

"I wonder if he's made his peace with G.o.d?"

"Perhaps; we shall never know. Paul was never a chap to say much about that kind of thing."

"I've just come from a prayer-meeting at Hanover Chapel. Never was there such a prayer-meeting before. Paul never went to chapel, but, but there----"

"Well, G.o.d Almighty knows if he's innocent," said another.

"Yes," was the reply. "And it's a good thing, too, that his mother'll know nothing about it. I've heerd as 'ow Dr. White says that even if she lives her mind'll never come back to her again."

"I suppose Judge Bolitho's still in th' town?"

"Ay; I hear he's been writing to th' Home Secretary. I know he's been to London more nor once."