XX
THE INTERVIEW
Prisoner and advocate were left together amid
recesses of impenetrable gloom in the darkest corner
of the large apartment. It seemed to enfold
them, and to render the pallor of their faces almost
invisible. The eyes alone encountered those of
each other, and even these could embody no phase
of meaning. A strange continence, as sharp and
clean as that of a hero of fable, had begun to
cleanse the veins of the advocate. In the presence
of this stealthy thing his nature had never seemed
so fine, so valiant, so full of subtle penetration; nor
had it ever felt so girt with mastery, so completely
enamored of its own security.
"I shall know what words to speak to-morrow," he said, in a hoarse undertone.
"Will they not be spoken for yourself?" whispered the dismal low voice.
"How? In what manner?"
"You will speak to make a name."
"Also for the salvation of yours."
"Mine does not matter; it is not my own."
"You trust me, do you not?"
"I trust you; yet you drew your hand away so quickly when you knew it was not the warder who was the murderess. Give it to me again."
There was something so curious in the prisoner's fragility, something so strange in her cowed air,
