illness had made in him.  And the change was, indeed, startling.  All the flush of intemperance had left his face, and at this moment his fever had subsided also, and left him only the natural dark but clear tint of his Indian blood; his hair had been smoothly combed, and looked less grey than when it hung tangled and knotted; his extreme weakness gave him an aspect of repose, which brought back the ghost of his old self—­something of the look of that Christian who had been, to a girl’s fancy, so fit a hero of romance.

It was but a likeness, truly, shadowy and dim, but it seemed to bridge over the interval—­the long, long weary years since the hero changed into the tyrant, and to make far easier that task of comforting and helping which duty, and not love, had imposed.

She came to his side, and still he did not notice her.  His eyes were fixed on the pale, grey, snowy sky, and he seemed deaf to the slight sounds of her movements.  She sat down and watched him silently.  From the first moment she knew that all, and more than all, Elton had said was true.  She saw death unmistakable, inevitable, and close at hand, and reproached herself for not having come sooner.  But in that strange calm and stillness, even self-reproach seemed to be curbed and repressed—­even a quickened beating of the heart would have been out of place.  So they remained until fully half an hour had passed, when the door of the room again opened; this time to admit the doctor.

He was an elderly man, kind, busy, and quick in his words and motions.  He came in briskly, and looked rather surprised at seeing Mrs. Costello.  She only bowed, however, and drew back as he came towards the bedside.  He was followed into the room by the jailer’s wife, who had compassionately tended the prisoner ever since his illness increased.

Christian seemed to wake from his stupor, or dream, at the sound of the doctor’s voice.  He answered the questions put to him mechanically but clearly, and with his old purity of accent and expression.  The dialogue, however, even with Mrs. Elton’s comments, was but a short one, and as soon as it was ended, Mrs. Costello came forward and stopped the doctor on his way from the room.

“Will you tell me,” she said in a low voice, “exactly what you think of him?”

He looked at her again with some surprise.

“I am interested in the question,” she went on, regulating her voice with a painful effort.  “I assure you it is not from mere curiosity I ask.”

“He is very low, very low indeed; but allow me to say, this is not the place for you.”

“I will not do myself any harm,” she answered, with a faint smile; “you shall not have any occasion to scold me.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About half an hour.  And you may feel my pulse if you like; it is perfectly steady.”

She held out her wrist; the pulse was, in fact, quite regular, rather more so than usual, and there was nothing to show that the sick room was “not the place for her.”