A squad of convicts passed near her as she stood there. They were marching with the prison “lockstep,” which was now becoming familiar to Marion.
The young girl did not turn her eyes, for she dreaded to see them. A look at their rough faces always made her heart ache sadly.
As she stood in her simple frock, with her big white apron, she made a picture of beauty such as had never been seen on the Island.
Pretty faces and sweet faces had been seen there from time to time, but this willowy girl, with her mass of chestnut hair and her splendid head set on such graceful shoulders, would have attracted attention from any man in the land, then how much more the attention of these imprisoned unfortunates.
Not one convict alone, but a dozen of them glanced at her.
There was a sharp command from the guard, followed by a sullen answer. The next second, before Marion realized what was happening, there came a splash in the water. One of the convicts in desperation had leaped into the river.
“Forward! March!” cried a guard, in almost furious tones.
The squad moved on toward the penitentiary without so much as turning their heads, while one of the guards, rifle in hand, stepped quickly to the wall beside Marion.
“Come back, or I’ll fire!” he called out, sternly, as a smooth shaven head appeared slowly above the surface.
Marion reached up instinctively and grasped the guard’s arm.