There was no slow creeping flush of colour now mounting to Varge's face—it came in a hot, mad, burning tide, as he held out his wrists.
Marston pressed his hand as the manacles slipped away.
"Good-bye, Varge," he said in a low, kindly tone; "I'll speak to the warden and do what I can for you."
Varge scarcely heard him. The girl's eyes had followed the operation, lifted from his wrists and looked into his face—indifferently. It was an incident to her. The delicately fibred chivalry of the man, that held all womanhood in reverence apart, leaped now into sudden anger against her—she could have saved him this added hurt so easily—so easily—just to have turned her head. And then the anger died. To him, the end of hope, the portal to that place where life was but a hideous, mocking word; to her, it was but an incident, part of her environment, but another guilt-stained creature facing his just punishment. And yet—and yet—a woman's heart, dead to sympathy, calloused—
The guard led him from the room and out into the hallway. The massive, steel-barred door swung back. A murmur of voices followed him from the warden's office—and then, in a sudden exclamation, a world of pity, of infinite mercy in the low, shocked tones, the girl's voice reached him.
"Oh—for life!"
And behind him, cold, dull, remorseless, ringing like a shuddering echo to the words, the steel-barred door flanged and shut.
