Then one day, on hearing that Jason was better, though neither was he so well as to travel nor was the snow hard enough to walk upon, Greeba stole across to the prison in the dark of the afternoon, saying nothing to anyone of her mission or intention.
The stuttering doorkeeper of the Senate was the jailor, and he betrayed great concern when Greeba asked to see his prisoner, showing by his ghastly looks, for his words would not come, that it would be rash on her part, after helping so much towards Jason's imprisonment, to trust herself in his presence.
"But what have I to fear?" she thought; and with a brave smile, she pushed her way through.
She found Jason in a square box built of heavy piles, laid horizontally both for walls and roof, dark and damp and muggy, lighted in the day by a hole in the wood not larger than a man's hand, and in the night by a sputtering candle hung from the rafters. He sat on a stool; his face was worn, his head was close-cropped to relieve the heat of his brain, and on the table by his side lay all his red hair, as long as his mother's was when it fell to the shears of the Jew on the wharf.
He gave no sign when Greeba entered, though he knew she was there, but sat with his face down and one hand on the table.
"Jason," she said, "I am ashamed. It is I who have brought you to this. Forgive me! forgive me! But my husband's life was in danger, and what was I to do?"
Still he gave no sign.
"Jason," she said again, "you have heaped coals of fire on my head; for I have done nothing but injure you, and though you might have done as much for me you never have."
At that the fingers of his hand on the table grasped the edge of it convulsively.
"But, Jason," she said, "all is not lost yet. No, for I can save you still. Listen. You shall give me your promise to make peace with my husband, and when my husband returns he will grant me your pardon. Oh, yes, I know he will, for he is tender-hearted, and he will forgive you; yes, he will forgive you——"