The door swung back on its creaking hinges. I slipped the fellow another gold piece.
"I must come in with you," he said; "you might do the wench an ill turn which would cheat the Duke of his show and me of my head to-morrow."
I slipped him another piece of gold, and then three together.
"Risk it, man," I said. "Have I not the Duke's own pass? I will do her no harm."
"Well," he said, "pray remember I am a man with five poor motherless children. My wife died of falling down a flight of steps ten years agone—praise the Lord for His mercies. For He is ever mindful of us, the sinful children of men."
The sound of his voice died away as the door closed. I turned, and was alone with the Beloved. The jailer had stuck the cresset in its niche behind the door, and its glow filled the little cell.
At first I could not see the Little Playmate—only a rough pallet bed and something white at the head of it. But as the cresset burned up more clearly, and my eyes became accustomed to the bleared and streaky light, I saw Helene, my love, kneeling at her bed's head.
I stood still and waited. Was she asleep? Was she—was she dead? I almost hoped that she might be. Then the Duke's vengeance would be balked indeed.
"Helene!" I said, softly, as one speaks to the dying—"Helene, dear, dear Helene!"
Slowly she looked up. Her face dawned on me as one day the face of the blessed angel will shine when he calls me out of purgatory.