"My poor Blaze! my poor Blaze!" she said, clasping his manacled hands.
In prison he refused to see all visitors, even Medallion, the Little Chemist’s wife, and the good Father Fabre. Letters, too, he refused to accept and read. He had no contact, wished no contact with the outer world, but lived his hard, lonely life by himself, silent, studious—for now books were a pleasure to him. He had entered his prison a wild, excitable, dissipated youth, and he had become a mature brooding man. Five years had done the work of twenty.
The face of the woman who looked at him so strangely in the court-room haunted him so that at last it became a part of his real life, lived largely at the window where he looked out at the pigeons on the roof of the hospital.
"She was sorry for me," he said many a time to himself. He was shaken with misery often, so that he rocked to and fro as he sat on his bed, and a warder heard him cry out even in the last days of his imprisonment:
"O God, canst Thou do everything but speak!" And again: "That hour! the memory of that hour, in exchange for my ruined life!"
One day the gaoler came to him and said: "M'sieu' Turgeon, you are free. The Governor has cut off five years from your sentence."
Then he was told that people were waiting without—Medallion, the Little Chemist and his wife, and others more important. But he would not go to meet them, and he stepped into the open world alone at dawn the next morning, and looked out upon a still sleeping village. Suddenly there stood before him a
