space beneath the
gallery; and against the wall of the building there were some little
railed-off enclosures; and doors that were constantly opening and
shutting, one of which, at least, seemed to lead into a corridor; and,
too, there was another wide stairway, down which some of those who had
come with her were already passing.

Her eyes came back to the inspector at the head of her own line, and
she watched him eagerly, as he kept writing all the time he talked to
the man who stood in front of him. It would be her turn in a moment.
What was he doing? What was he saying? And then, as she watched, the
man in front of the inspector swung a large, ungainly valise to his
shoulder, and passed behind the desk, and crossed the open space
beyond, and went down the stairs.

There was only one more now before her--another man. Her heart began
to pound rapidly. She was not afraid of the inspector at the desk; she
was not afraid that he would refuse to let her through--why should she
be? It was not that--it was only that the moment had come now when she
was to go out into this new land, and face new conditions where even
the language was unknown to her, and--and begin her life over again.
It was only that this moment seemed so big with finality--the threshold
between the future and the past.

It was her turn now. Mechanically she took up her bundle, and stepped
to the desk. "To love God and be never afraid"--she was saying that to
herself again.

"Your name?" demanded the inspector. He spoke in French, in quick
appreciation of her nationality.

"Marie-Louise Bernier," she answered in a low voice, her eyes on the
bundle in her arms.

"Your age? And"--he added kindly--"do not be nervous."

She raised her eyes to smile gratefully back at him--and then, with a
cry that rang and rang again through the immense hall and stilled all
else to silence, she flung herself madly past the desk, and ran across
the open space behind it.

"_Jean! Jean! Jean!_"

A figure, grimy, dirty, disreputable, whose hands were manacled, rose,
with an answering cry, from within one of the railed-off enclosures.

"Jean! Jean!"--she had reached him now, and was sobbing, clinging to
him. "Jean--you--here! These things on your wrists! And your face is
so white, Jean! Jean, Jean, what does it mean? Jean--"

And then she was conscious of a rush of men, and hands were upon her
trying to tear her away--and then, with a strength that was