"I hope," she said, more boldly, but with the colour coming up in her brown cheek--"I hope that some means will be found to set the poor boy free, for I am sure he was not the guilty person."
As she spoke Pharold gazed on her with such grave earnestness that her latter words faltered; and even after she had concluded he still kept his eyes fixed upon her in silence, till one of the men, who had accompanied Dickon on the deer-stealing expedition, joined into corroborate her words.
"No, no," said the man, "he was not so guilty as any of us. Dickon persuaded the rest of us, and we persuaded him; but it was a hard matter to do so; and then, after all, he never fired a gun."
"Well," said Pharold, "I have done my utmost to free him: but he is in the hands of our enemies, who are keen, and vigilant, and many; and I see no way of delivering him from them but by force, which I will not employ, first, because it would fail; and next, because it would be sacrificing many of the innocent to deliver one who, though less guilty than others, is still culpable. I see no other way."
"Ay, but there is another way, Pharold," said the old woman: "they say that he is confined in what they call the strong room."
"They say!" exclaimed Pharold, hastily--"they say! Some one has been with you: speak, who has been here? or has any one gone forth when I forbade it?"
The old woman only grinned at having betrayed herself, as Pharold looked sternly round upon the circle; but Lena cast herself upon his bosom, saying, "Tell him the truth! Oh, tell him the truth! It is always better to tell him the truth! Well, if no one else will, I will. Some one has been here, Pharold--some one who has seen the poor boy in prison; and he told us all how wretched he is, and also he said that William himself had sent him to us to say, that if any one would come down to-night or to-morrow night to the window of the room where he is lying, they could easily wrench off the iron bars that kept him in, and set him free at once."
"And who was the person that he sent?" demanded Pharold, sternly.
"Why, it was just Harry Saxon, the game-sneaker," answered the old woman; "who else should it be?"
"A dastardly villain!" said Pharold, hastily; "fit to betray us all: speak no more of it. I know that man of old, and would not trust him with the life of a child, if he could gain by its destruction."