“A visitor?” repeated M. de Boiscoran.
But the jailer had raised his lantern, and the poor man could recognize his betrothed.
“You,” he cried, “you here!”
And he drew back, afraid of being deceived by a dream, or one of those fearful hallucinations which announce the coming of insanity, and take hold of the brains of sick people in times of over-excitement.
“Dionysia!” he barely whispered, “Dionysia!”
If not her own life (for she cared nothing for that), but Jacques’s life, had at that moment depended on a single word, Dionysia could not have uttered it. Her throat was parched, and her lips refused to move. The jailer took it upon himself to answer,—
“Yes,” he said, “Miss Chandore.”
“At this hour, in my prison!”
“She had something important to communicate to you. She came to me”—
“O Dionysia!” stammered Jacques, “what a precious friend”—