"It's a knife to take the place of the one you lost."
The guard shook his head reprovingly.
"No knives for prisoners, Cecil," said Neville.
"Well, you shall have thomething, because you are my friend. I mean that you shall be my tenant at Robin Hood's Barn yet, and I don't think you killed the priest. Mother does; but men must think for themselves."
Neville bit his lip till the blood came.
"See," said Cecil, "here is a picture of Mother done on ivory. She gave it to me the morning I was lord of the manor. I asked if I could give it to you. She smiled and said it would be time enough to think of that when you asked for it, and I promised never to offer it to you till you did; but it ith a pretty picture, and you would like it to look at in the tobacco-house, and you could sell it for bread if you escape"—this in a lower whisper. "Now, do you ask for it?"
Neville grew white to the lips. He looked at the picture as a starving man looks at bread. After an instant's hesitation he shut his teeth and drew himself up.
"No!" he cried.
Then wrenching his wrist from the jailer's clasp, he lifted Cecil in his arms, kissed him, and set him down again.