The governor summoned guards and ordered irons for four and a wheeled chair for The White One; then armed with a lantern he led the way from the office. A deeper chill, a more fearsome suspense, settled upon Drexel as he entered the cold and gloomy corridors whence no voice could penetrate the outer world—behind whose every door lay some political dreamer who perhaps would never again look upon the sun. Through one dark corridor—then another—then another, the governor and Drexel marched, followed by a guard with manacles and leg-chains, and another trundling The White One’s chair.
At length the governor paused and thrust a key into a door. “In here is the old woman,” he said.
They entered. The lantern’s yellow light revealed The White One upon the straw mattress of an iron cot. She turned her white head and regarded the invaders with calm questioning.
The governor stepped forward, the guard with the irons beside him. “Hold out your hands!” he ordered.
“What for?” she asked in her even voice.
“For those,” and he pointed to the heavy manacles in the hands of the guard.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“None of your questions! Out with your hands!”
She returned his look with the calm defiance of her unbroken spirit. “I shall give you no aid in leading me to a fate I am ignorant of.”
“You won’t!” roared the governor.