link which had been discovered seemed so
conclusive. Who could stand against such an
accumulation of facts as were now got together.
Gilbert's legal knowledge fitted him in a
peculiar way to judge how great the force
of those facts was. In the dark lonely house
he sat and quailed before the thought of them.
Yes, he quailed—the hero of our tale, and I do
not hesitate to present him as doing so. Consider
the issue that was at stake. It was not some
question of property that was to be decided. It
was not even some fine that was impending, some
minor punishment that threatened. It was death.
That frail delicate woman whom he loved, and
every pore of whose skin was precious to him, was
actually in peril of her life. Might meet—unless
something could be done to avert it—a violent
death at the hands of the executioner. At
such a thought a man must quail, if he has the
power of feeling. He may rally afterwards, but
he must tremble at first.

As he sat with his head in his hands immersed
in these reflections, there came a feeble tap at
the door, and the wretched servant-of-all-work
appeared hesitatingly at the end of the room,
with a pair of candles and a cup of tea which
she had prepared. The poor wench was
frightened out of her wits, and her eyes were
swelled with crying. Gabrielle had been so
kind to her, and had won her love, and she had
been in tears all the evening. She burst out
again when Penmore assured her that her
mistress would be made comfortable for the
night, and would have a bed to sleep upon.
The girl had had visions of a stone dungeon and
chains from the moment that Gabrielle had left
the house. She was comforted by that thought
of the bed.

With the bringing of those lights into the
room a change had come over Gilbert's naturally
courageous and energetic spirit. To sink down
into a condition of despondency, to give up hope
and remain a prey to inactive sorrow, was not
the part of a man—was, above all, not the way
to help his dear Gabrielle. No, he would give
way no longer. She was innocent, and he would
stir heaven and earth to prove it. There must
be a way out of the dark intricacies of this
labyrinth, and that way it should be his business
to find. Heaven would help him, he prayed
and believed, and would make the way plain,
and those prison-doors should be thrown open
yet, and Gabrielle should pass out of them and
be his once more. He wondered now that they
had ever complained of their poverty or of
anything else in the time before this trouble,
and when at any rate they were together. Such
a state of things seemed happy indeed now.
Might they but attain to it again, there should
be no more complaints.

Gilbert sat on long into the night occupied
with these and the like reflections, twisting and
turning over in his mind all the various questions
suggested by the events of the last few days
But he could make nothing of it. Visions of
his poor Gabrielle in prison came up continually
before him, and then all his thoughts began to
weave themselves into a sort of pattern, and the
same things kept coming round and round in
succession. Policemen, doctors, chemist, the
figure of the coroner, the face of one of the
nembers of the jury, complete all but one eye,
that one missing feature, too, he was obliged to
strain every faculty to supply as if his life
depended on it; but when he had got it, behold,
the mouth was gone next, and presently the
juryman himself was gone, and the vacant place
left by his removal troubled him not a little.
Still it all went round and round; was it a
pattern, or was it a tune? There was always
something wanting, whatever it was, and after
that something he was obliged to strain. Round
and round—it was neither a pattern nor a tune;
it was a dance, a chain-figure, in and out, round
and round. Policemen, doctors, chemist, coroner,
incomplete juryman—but what a strange
place in which to hold an inquest—the garden
of Governor Descartes in the West Indian
Island. Perhaps they met there, though, on
account of the serpent. For the serpent, winding
in and out, and still pursuing his course
round and round, kept the pattern, the tune,
the dance-figure, or whatever it was—oh,
what was it?—kept it together. If he could
but follow it, or if it were but complete. Let
it be complete, let him grasp it, or let it leave
him in peace. No, he must go on with it, and
the serpent's head, never once showing the
whole time, only the shining scales of his body,
gleaming at intervals between the policeman
and the doctor, between the chemist and the
coroner, binding them all together, and yet—
what folly!—letting them all slip through at
last.

He was only half asleep all this time; but
when he got to be quite asleep, it was not much
better; for still he went on with the same
miserable work in his dreams, only now he knew
that it was a dream, and that there would be an
awakening, when the policeman, and the chemist,
and the coroner, and the winding, glittering
snake would leave him in peace at last. They
did leave him in peace at last, and he slept,
dreamless, in the great leather chair.

When Gilbert awoke, it was broad daylight.
The night had passed away then, and the world
was alive again. But where was he? What
had happened? Where was—where was
Gabrielle?

Ah, it is a terrible thing that first time of
waking after some dreadful thing has happened.
Better, one is apt to think, to have kept awake,
with the truth before one's eyes, than to have
got away from it for a season, only that it may
come back again with the deadlier force. When
Gilbert woke, and found that he had passed the
night in wild dreams and fantastic imaginings,
only to wake to a worse horror than all, and to
know that it was real, he wished that he had
not slept. Yes, it was true. Gabrielle was not
there. They had been parted all night. She
was away. She was in prison.

But it was daytime now, and very shortly he
would be able to see her. There was