He had not expected this. It had become a sort of settled conviction in his mind that he would have to die alone and uncomforted. He had a vague idea that people would be allowed to see him, but no definite hopes had ever come into his mind. Perhaps he had wondered why he had been left so long alone, but he had never doubted Mary's love.
Regardless of the fact that the warder stood there, the man who, as it seemed to him, was coarse and almost brutal, watching his every action, listening to his every word, he threw open his arms: "Mary, my love!"
A minute later she was sobbing out her grief on his shoulder.
"I wanted to come before, Paul," she said; "but father did not think it best."
"No, no; I understand. Oh, Mary, it's heaven to me to see you, to hear you speak, to hold you like this; but I almost wish you had not come. Why should you suffer?"
"I have come, Paul, because I could not help it, and because—— Oh, I want to tell you something. Must this man stay?"
"Can you not go and leave us alone?" said Paul to the man.
The warder shook his head. "Against rules!"
"But surely you need not listen to what—to what—my—that is, this young lady has to say to me."
The man did not speak. Perhaps he had some glimmering of understanding, perhaps he realised the position better than they thought.