Mrs. Willoughby had told Girasole that she had no knife; but this was not quite true, for she now produced one, and cut the cords that bound his wrists. Again a thrill flashed through him at the touch of her little fingers; she then cut the cords that bound his ankles.
Dacres sat up. His ankles and wrists were badly swollen, but he was no longer conscious of pain. There was rapture in his soul, and of that alone was he conscious.
"Be careful!" she whispered, warningly; "guards are all around, and listeners. Be careful! If you can think of a way of escape, do so."
Dacres rubbed his hand over his forehead.
"Am I dreaming?" said he; "or is it all true? A while ago I was suffering from some hideous vision; yet now you say you forgive me!"
Mrs. Willoughby saw in this a sign of returning delirium. "But the poor fellow must be humored, I suppose," she thought.
"Oh, there is nothing for me to forgive," said she.
"But if there were any thing, would you?"
"Yes."
"Freely?" he cried, with a strong emphasis.