Anthony was in his cell. He expected every moment to be called forth, and to hear his doom. He was perfectly calm, and thought only of Urith. He had the half-token about his neck, and he kissed it. Urith had given it to him: it was a pledge to him that she would ever be heartaching for him, living in the love and thought of him. Time passed without his noticing it.
Steps approached his cell, and he rose from his seat, ready to follow the soldier who would lead him forth to death. But, to his astonishment, in the door appeared Julian, with the lieutenant. Anthony's face darkened, and he stepped back. Why should this girl—this girl who had poisoned his life—come to torment and disturb him at the last hour?
Perhaps she read his thoughts in his face by the pale ray of light that entered from the window; and, with a voice trembling with emotion, she said, "Anthony, you are free!"
He did not stir, but looked questioningly at her. She also was pale, deadly pale, and her whole frame was quivering.
"It is true," said Friswell. "You are free to depart, you and the old man; both are discharged. There has been a mistake."
"I do not understand. There can have been no mistake," said Anthony.
"Come, quick; follow me," said Julian. Then, in a low tone, turning to the lieutenant, she said, "Suffer me one moment to speak to him alone."
"You may speak to him as much as you will," said the young man. "I only wish I were in his place."
"Anthony," said she, "say not another word to anyone here. I have delivered you."
"You, Julian! But how?"