Page:Henry Northcote (IA henrynorthcote00snairich).pdf/189

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THE INTERVIEW

Prisoner and advocate were left together amid recesses of impenetrable gloom in the darkest corner of the large apartment. It seemed to enfold them, and to render the pallor of their faces almost invisible. The eyes alone encountered those of each other, and even these could embody no phase of meaning. A strange continence, as sharp and clean as that of a hero of fable, had begun to cleanse the veins of the advocate. In the presence of this stealthy thing his nature had never seemed so fine, so valiant, so full of subtle penetration; nor had it ever felt so girt with mastery, so completely enamored of its own security.

"I shall know what words to speak to-morrow," he said, in a hoarse undertone.

"Will they not be spoken for yourself?" whispered the dismal low voice.

"How? In what manner?"

"You will speak to make a name."

"Also for the salvation of yours."

"Mine does not matter; it is not my own."

"You trust me, do you not?"

"I trust you; yet you drew your hand away so quickly when you knew it was not the warder who was the murderess. Give it to me again."

There was something so curious in the prisoner's fragility, something so strange in her cowed air,