Dong!—dong!—dong! it sounded, with long intervals between the notes. Straight across the vacant ground, from the shrouded walls of Alan's dungeon, and into the contracting fibres of her own tortured heart; it smote with sudden terror, turning her blood to ice and her cheeks to livid whiteness.
Great heaven, it was a death-knell. Could it be Alan who was dead!
For a moment she felt as if she must needs rush into the street and break open those prison gates, must ascertain at once that Alan was still alive. She went out into the hall and stood for a moment hesitating. Should she go? and would they tell her at the gates if Alan was alive or dead?
The landlady heard her moving, and came out of a little apartment at the back of the house, to see what was going on.
"Were you going out, ma'am?" she asked, curiously.
"I? no; at least," said Lettice, with somewhat difficult utterance, "I was only wondering what that bell was, and——"
"Oh, that's a bell from the church close by. Sounds exactly like a passing-bell, don't it, ma'am? And appropriate too. For my son, who is one of the warders, as I think I've mentioned to you, was here this afternoon, and tells me that one of the prisoners is dead. A gentleman, too: the one that there was so much talk about a little while ago."
Lettice leaned against the passage wall, glad that in the gathering darkness her face could not be seen.
"Was his name—Walcott?" she asked.
"Yes, that was it. At least I think so. I know it was Wal—something. He was in for assault, I believe, and a nicer, quieter-spoken gentleman, my son says he never saw. But he died this afternoon, I understand, between five and six o'clock—just as his time was nearly out, too, poor man."