otably once
at Gisors, where by some cunning management he and mademoiselle found
themselves in the cell of the prisoner's Nail-wrought work while Nesta
had to take Sowerby's hand for help at a passage here and there along the
narrow outer castle-walls. And Mr. Barmby, upon occasions, had set that
dimple in Nesta's cheek quivering, though Simeon Fenellan was not at
hand, and there was no telling how it was done, beyond the evidence that
Victor willed it so.

From the day of the announcement of Lakelands, she had been brought more
into contact with his genius of dexterity and foresight than ever
previously: she had bent to the burden of it more; had seen herself and
everybody else outstripped--herself, of course; she did not count in a
struggle with him. But since that red dawn of Lakelands, it was almost as
if he had descended to earth from the skies. She now saw his mortality in
the miraculous things he did. The reason of it was, that through the
perceptible various arts and shifts on her level, an opposing spirit had
plainer view of his aim, to judge it. She thought it a mean one.

The power it had to hurry her with the strength of a torrent to an end
she dreaded, impressed her physically; so far subduing her mind, in
consequence, as to keep the idea of absolute resistance obscure, though
her bosom heaved with the breath; but what was her own of a mind hung
hovering above him, criticizing; and involuntarily, discomfortingly. She
could have prayed to be led blindly or blindly dashed on: she could trust
him for success; and her critical mind seemed at times a treachery. Still
she was compelled to judge.

When he said to her at night, pressing both her hands: 'This is the news
of the day, my love! It's death at last. We shall soon be thanking heaven
for freedom'; her fingers writhed upon his and gripped them in a torture
of remorse on his behalf. A shattering throb of her heart gave her sight
of herself as well. For so it is with the woman who loves in subjection,
she may be a critic of the man, she is his accomplice.'

'You have a letter, Victor?'

'Confirmation all round: Fenellan, Themison, and now Skepsey.'

He told her the tale of Skepsey and Jarniman, colouring it, as any
interested animated conduit necessarily will. Neither of them smiled.

The effort to think soberly exhausted and rolled her back on credulity.

It might not be to-day or next week or month: but so much testimony
pointed to a day within the