"And to-morrow you will be free?" she questioned doubtfully.
"Aye, free from every fetter."
Something in his tone startled her.
"It is not so," she cried quickly. "You are deceiving me."
"Nay, madame. Is not freedom the supreme gift of death?"
"Then you are to die to-morrow?" she asked in a tone full of awe.
"Court-martial at sunrise, shot like a dog at noon. That is my sentence. Come, will you not wish me a pleasant voyage? I confess myself no good sailor, and do heartily trust they have no storms on the Styx."
He spoke lightly, but she turned from him suddenly with a choking sob.
"Oh!" she cried bitterly. "How you must despise me for a true coward."
He laughed tenderly.