consolation in that, at any rate. Quick as thought, he
was out of the house, and away to the prison.
As he passed along the street, he could not help
thinking, as he looked into the faces of the
passengers whom he encountered, that there was
not one of them—not one—who could, be his
troubles what they might, have such a terror and
such an anxiety pressing down upon his soul as
this which was gnawing at his own heart.

Still he pressed on and on; and when he had
reached the dreadful door in the prison wall of
Newgate, it seemed to him as if he had trod on
air all the way, nor could he remember a single
circumstance connected with his transit from his
house to that place.

He was too early to obtain admission to the
prison. The jailer mentioned the hour when
he might return, and told him that, in the mean
time, he could not do better than apply to the
governor of the prison for an order such as would
admit him at the proper time.

CHAPTER XXVI. A GREAT TRUST.

There is a sort of numbness which comes
over us in seasons of extraordinary trial, which
seems to be expressly provided to shield us
from the full force of the trouble—whatever it
may be—which we are passing through. The
truth does not show itself to us at first in grim
nakedness, but is something veiled and obscured
by reason of the dimness which comes over our
faculties, descending along with the shock. It
is probable that in dreams, and when afflicted
with sad night-thoughts, we have most of us
known greater horror—though in no real trouble
maybe at the moment—than when real misery
has come upon us. The imagination has been
preternaturally keen in seizing the imaginary
misery, but has been dull when it had a terrible
reality to deal with.

Gilbert Penmore felt something of this
numbness as he followed the turnkey down the
corridor which led to the cell in which his poor little
wife was shut up. Some incident, such as the
grating of a bolt, or the heavy slam of a
well-fortified door, would now and then, for an
instant, bring a part of the truth before him, and
dissipate, for an instant, the mist which hung
over his perceptive faculties. At such seasons,
a shudder would pass through his frame, and
the heart would sink within him, but presently
the dim feeling would descend again, rendering
all things indistinct. So there have been
travellers who, lost in a strange land, wandering
on in utter darkness, have for a moment, while
a lightning flash endured, seen every feature of
the country through which they were passing,
and presently have lost it all again, as the
darkness has again fallen over the scene.

It was one of these lightning-flash moments
of revelation, when all things came out in
vividest reality, when the door of Gabrielle's cell
was unfastened, and Gilbert was admitted to her
place of confinement.

A figure that looked small, and weak, and
helpless in the extreme, started up, and Gabrielle
rushed forward to meet him. For a moment
they were locked in each other's arms, but they
were not alone, and with strange, though it
must be owned not inquisitive, eyes upon them,
could give no way to those transports of love,
and joy, and sorrow, which they longed so
eagerly to indulge. They sat down side by side
in the furthest corner of the cell, and for a time
could not speak.

That consciousness that what they said was
overheard, kept both of them silent, even when
the first overwhelming emotion which attended
such a meeting had to some extent passed away,
and when at last they did exchange a few words,
it was in an under tone, and not yet of the
momentous matter with which the hearts of both
were full.

"Did you miss me in the evening?" asked
Gabrielle, who was the first to speak. "Did
you get some sleep?"

She sat with her husband's hand in hers, and
could even smile upon him, so great was her
contentment to have him there beside her. She
could forget the future for the time in the
enjoyment of the hour. But with him it was
very different. His anxiety was too devouring,
too terrible, for any sensation of happiness to
co-exist with it. Here, perhaps, was shown the
difference of their natures, or it may have been
that Gabrielle's fears being for herself were less
terrible than those of her husband, whose
apprehension was for another, and that other—his
wife.

By degrees, they got to be more accustomed
to that thought of not being alone, and were
able to talk, though still in an under tone, of those
important issues which it was absolutely necessary
they should discuss. One of the sessions
of the court was just about to open, and it was
thought likely that the trial would take place
almost immediately. It was of the utmost
importance, then, that no moment should be lost in
taking the necessary steps for the preparation
of the defence. Gilbert explained this to his
wife, and told her how it would be necessary
that he should leave her very shortly in order
that he might see to this all-important matter
without a moment's delay.

In one instant a thought which had dimly
flitted through his own mind along with other
misgivings generated by the present trouble,
was put before him, no longer as a wild dangerous
fancy, but as a thing deserving to be
immediately and seriously considered, if not promptly
acted upon. It had crossed Penmore's mind
that he himself was the right person to stand
between Gabrielle and the danger which
threatened her, and now he found that this
which he had looked upon almost as a crude
fancy, was with her nothing less than a fixed
idea, a certainty to which she clung with all the
force of her nature.

"Why, Gilbert," she whispered, "have you
ever doubted who must help me at this time?
Shall anybody fight my battles but you?"

He gazed at her in silence, and made no reply.
It was the thought of his heart, the crude
imagining which he had dismissed, put before