I thought of the cell window; but if there had been any hope that way,
M. Picot had worked an escape.
Bowing my head to think--to pray--to imprecate, I lost all sense of
time and place. Some one had slipped quietly into the dark of the
church. I felt rather than saw a nearing presence. But I paid no
heed, for despair blotted out all thought. Whoever it was came feeling
a way down the dark aisle.
Then hot tears fell upon my hands. In the gloom there paused a
childlike figure.
"Rebecca!"
She panted out a wordless cry. Then she came closer and laid a hand on
my arm. She was struggling to subdue sobs. The question came in a
shivering breath.
"Is Hortense--so dear?"
"So dear, Rebecca."
"She must be wondrous happy, Ramsay." A tumult of effort. "If I could
only take her place----"
"Take her place, Rebecca?"
"My father hath the key--if--if--if I took her place, she might go
free."
"Take her place, child! What folly is this--dear, kind Rebecca? Would
't be any better to send you to the rope than Hortense? No--no--dear
child!"
At that her agitation abated, and she puzzled as if to say more.
"Dear Rebecca," said I, comforting her as I would a sister, "dear
child, run home. Forget not little Hortense in thy prayers.
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