“Number 1,197 is Sarah Jenks,” read another convict, “and 1,198 is Mrs. Mary Ray, both en route via the Fidelity for the trenches up yonder!”
As the convict stopped speaking he turned around quickly, for every man on the lower deck seemed to be staring at something.
Right behind him stood Marion Marlowe, her cheeks as white as death, while her beautiful eyes seemed glazed with horror.
“Quick! Let me see that tag!” she whispered sharply. “Oh, I am almost sure you must be mistaken!”
In less than a second there was a guard beside her, but his presence was unnecessary, for not one of the convicts would have harmed her.
“It is Mary Ray, all right,” said the guard, showing her the tag. “Do you know her, miss? Has somebody blundered?”
“Somebody has blundered, terribly!” said Marion, more calmly. “That coffin must not be taken to Hart’s Island, men. Why, I know her husband, and such a thing would kill him!”
“It’s a wonder she’s where she is if he thought so much of her,” muttered one of the convicts.
“You don’t understand,” said Marion, sadly. “It is just as the guard said—somebody has blundered.”
The captain was consulted, but he was an obstinate man.