The Commandant hurried out from his office to welcome them—­a bustling little officer with sandy hair and the kindliest possible face; a trifle self-important, obviously proud of his prison, and, after a fashion, of his prisoners too; anxiously, elaborately polite in his manner, especially towards Dorothea.

“Major Westcote!”—­he gave Endymion his full title—­“My dear sir, this is indeed—­And Miss Westcote?” he bowed as he was introduced, “Delighted—­honoured!  But what a journey!  You must be famished, positively; you will be wanting luncheon at once—­yes, really you must allow me.  No?  A glass of sherry, then, and a biscuit at least . . .”  He ran to the door, called to his orderly to bring some glasses, and came back rubbing his hands.  “It’s an ill wind, as they say . . .”

“We have come with the order about which we have corresponded.”

“For that poor fellow Raoul?” The Commandant nodded gaily and smiled; and Dorothea, who had been watching his face, felt the load dissolve and roll off her heart, as a pile of snow slides from a bough in the sunshine.  “He is better, I am glad to report—­out of bed and fairly convalescent indeed.  But I hope my message did not alarm you needlessly.  It was touch-and-go with him for twenty-four hours; still, he was bettering when I wrote.  And to bring you all this way, and in such weather!”

“My sister and I,” explained Endymion, “take a particular interest in his case.”

But the voluble officer was not so easily silenced.

“So, to be sure, I gathered.”  He bowed gallantly to Dorothea. “’O woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please’—­not, of course, that I attribute any such foibles to Miss Westcote, but for the sake of the conclusion.”

“Can we see him?”

“Eh?  Before luncheon?  Oh, most assuredly, if you wish it.  He has been transferred to the Convalescents’ Ward.  We will step across at once.”  He drew from his pocket a small master-key, attached by a steel chain to his belt, and blew into the wards thoughtfully while he studied the paper handed to him by Endymion.  “Quite in order, of course.  No doubt, you and Miss Westcote would prefer to break the good news to him in private?  Yes, yes; I will have him sent up to the Consulting Room.  The Doctor has finished his morning rounds, and you will be quite alone there.”

He picked up his cap and escorted them out and across the court to the gate of the main prison.  Beyond this Dorothea found herself in a vast snowy yard, along two sides of which ran covered ways or piazzas open to the air, but faced with iron bars, and behind these bars flitted the forms of the prisoners at exercise, stamping the flagged pavement to keep their starved blood in circulation.  At a sight of the Commandant with his two visitors—­so small a spectacle had power to divert them—­ all this movement, this stamping, was hushed suddenly.  Voices broke into chatter; faces appeared between the bars and stared.