"I only think that death would be easier than the life of half of the convicts here."
"They themselves would prefer it, perhaps."
"Tell me, who is the convict that has escaped?" she feverishly asked.
"Is it a political prisoner?"
"You would not know him. He was one of the Commune who escaped shooting in the Place de la Concorde. Carbourd, I think, was his name."
"Carbourd, Carbourd," she repeated, and turned her head away towards the
Semaphore.
Her earnestness aroused in Tryon a sudden flame of sympathy which had its origin, as he well knew, in three years of growing love. This love leaped up now determinedly—perhaps unwisely; but what should a blunt soul like Hugh Tryon know regarding the best or worst time to seek a woman's heart? He came close to her now and said: "If you are so kind in thought for a convict, I dare hope that you would be more kind to me."
"Be kind to you," she repeated, as if not understanding what he said, nor the look in his eyes.
"For I am a prisoner, too."
"A prisoner?" she rejoined a little tremulously, and coldly.
"In your hands, Marie." His eyes laid bare his heart.