had occupied, sat down and rested her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands.
"The man they've caught isn't Varge, the man they've caught isn't Varge"—the phrase repeated itself over and over in her mind. There was no mistaking that last look of Doctor Kreelmar's—Doctor Kreelmar knew. How? Had he seen Varge? Where? When? What did it mean?
A flush of colour mounted to her cheeks—relief, gladness, almost incredible in its intensity, possessed her—"the man they've caught isn't Varge, the man they've caught isn't Varge"—the phrase seemed to cling as a priceless thought. The splendid figure in all its wondrous strength, its vigour of fine, young manhood, in all its simple, unaffected heroism, the same heroism that intuitively she knew had led him to accept the hideous prison stripes, the living death, rose before her, sharp-outlined in every detail as she had seen him through the lifting layers of smoke, making his perilous way along the peak of the burning house, carrying another to life and safety—as afterward, at far greater risk to himself, he had won his way to her, and carried her to life and safety.
It seemed so long ago since that afternoon when she had decided to go away—she was still going away, it was true, but for another reason—her health, because the house was burnt and there was really no place in the village for her to stay—there was no need to go for anything else now—Varge had gone himself. It was only a few days back to that afternoon, but it seemed a long, long time since that passage in the book had come so suddenly to startle and frighten her, and
