time in the weeks of his
struggle against death and a thing worse than death, he cursed himself.
There was a limit to optimism and a limit to hope. His limit was
reached.

In the afternoon of this seventh day came a depressing gloom. It was
filled with a drizzling rain. Hour after hour this drizzle kept up,
thickening as the night came. He ate his supper by the light of a cell
lamp. By eight o'clock it was black outside. In that blackness there
was an occasional flash of lightning and rumble of thunder. On the roof
of the barracks the rain beat steadily and monotonously.

His watch was in his hand--it was a quarter after nine o'clock, when he
heard the door at the far exit of the hall open and close. He had heard
it a dozen times since supper and paid no attention to it, but this
time it was followed by a voice at the detachment office that hit him
like an electrical shock. Then, a moment later, came low laughter. It
was a woman who laughed.

He stood up. He heard the detachment office door close, and silence
followed. The watch in his hand seemed ticking off the seconds with
frantic noise. He shoved it into his pocket and stood staring out into
the prison alcove. A few minutes later the office door opened again.
This time it was not closed. He heard distinctly a few light,
hesitating footsteps, and his heart seemed to stop its beating. They
came to the head of the lighted alcove, and for perhaps the space of a
dozen seconds there was silence again. Then they advanced.

Another moment, and Kent was staring through the bars into the glorious
eyes of Marette Radisson!

CHAPTER XIII

In that moment Kent did not speak. He made no sound. He gave no sign of
welcome, but stood in the middle of his cell, staring. If life had hung
upon speech in those few seconds, he would have died, but everything he
would have said, and more, was in his face. The girl must have seen it.
With her two hands she was gripping at the bars of the cell and looking
through at him. Kent saw that her face was pale in the lamp glow. In
that pallor her violet eyes were like pools of black. The hood of her
dripping raincoat was thrown partly back, and against the whiteness of
her cheeks her hair glistened wet, and her long lashes were heavy with
the rain.

Kent, without moving over the narrow space between them, reached out
his hands and found his voice. "Marette!"

Her hands had tightened about the bars until they were bloodless. Her
li