him in a new light. The venture proposed by
her who had so much at stake—nothing less
than her life.

"Is there anything to prevent it?" she asked,
in visible alarm. "Is it against the law?"

"No, Gabrielle, no,' answered her husband,
gazing at her as if still in doubt. "It is not
against the law. I might not be witness for
you, it is certain, but I know of no law to
prevent me from defending you."

"Then it is settled, Gilbert, is it not?"

Penmore still paused. A great struggle was
going on within him. How ought he to act in
this strange and surely unprecedented position.
As to his instinct, it prompted him to accede at
once to Gabrielle's request. But—and then a
host of "buts" rose up in terrible array against
his doing so. As to the thing being, though
consistent with the law, yet contrary to usage,
that, and the thought of what people might say,
he was determined wholly to disregard. There
was too much at stake for questions of etiquette
to receive consideration. Those he could
dismiss at once. But was he the best man? That
was the thought which made him hesitate, even
now with Gabrielle holding his hand and looking
in his face as she sat there in the prison,
waiting for his answer. She shook his hand
gently, with a little impatient movement, like a
favourite claiming attention.

"Gilbert, why don't you answer me? What
are you thinking of?"

"I am thinking of what you have said,
Gabrielle," he answered. "It is a thing which
demands to be thought over as one would
consider an act on which life or death depends."

"But it is my life or my—my—death which
depends upon it," she said, "and I am ready to
run the risk, Gilbert."

"You ready—but am I ready?" asked her
husband. "If there is a stronger man than I
who could fight for your life with mightier force,
or a more skilful, who could defend you with
more subtle art—-"

"But there is not, Gilbert," said the poor
prisoner, simply.

"If there were such an one," continued
Gilbert, almost as if speaking to himself, "it would
be my duty to seek him out, and secure his aid
at once."

"But there is not," said the wife again;
"and, if by any chance there were, any such
strength and skill possessed by him would be
more than counterbalanced by the life interest
in what is at issue which you would have, and
he could not, and which would inspire you with
both strength and wisdom such as no one could
resist."

"There is some force in that, indeed," said
Gilbert, in a low voice, "but what if that very
sense of how much there is at stake, and what
the issue of the trial is to me, should not only
fail to give me new strength and ability, but
should paralyse me for the time, and strip me
of what I may already possess?"

"It would not be so, Gilbert," said Gabrielle,
"I know. In a smaller matter it might be, but
not in this. You would be nerved, not unnerved,
by the thoughts you speak of."

A change had come over Gabrielle Penmore.
She seemed to be possessed of more strength
now than when in less certain danger. The
hand of death was held over her now, and seemed
about to grasp her. The valley of the shadow
lay before her, and yet she flinched not. She
who had so quailed before the mere threats of
the servant, Jane Cantanker, or at the thought
of an inquest being held in the house in which
she lived, was, now with the prison walls of
Newgate encircling her about, with a trial
before her, in which it was to be a question of life
or death, endued with a strange and inexplicable
courage, such as she could not herself understand.
The foreshadowing of a possible danger
had scared her more, as it sometimes will, than
the danger itself when it had come upon her.

Penmore looked at his wife with amazement.
The trial through which she was passing seemed
to be developing new qualities in her.

"Gilbert," she pleaded once more, "you, and
you only, shall save me. I feel sure that you
must do this, and no one else. Why, I should
not wish to owe my life to any one but you."

"Gabrielle, it shall be as you say," cried her
husband. "I will not hesitate more. The
strength of your conviction seems to have
something almost ominous about it. I accept the
omen, and will from this time allow no doubt or
misgiving to come between me and this great
undertaking."

Gabrielle would fain have put her arms about
his neck, and so have thanked him for thus
acceding to her wish, but they were not alone,
and because of this both were obliged to put a
strong restraint upon their words and actions.
She could only press his hand, speechless.

Gilbert, too, was silent for a time. The
thought of this that he had undertaken to do
was an overwhelming one, and absorbed him
almost too much for speech. He would allow
no misgiving now, however. The die was cast.
He would carry out what he had resolved to
do to the utmost of his ability, but he would
not reconsider the determination which he had
taken.

Presently they began to speak of other things.
Gabrielle was full of anxiety for her husband's
comforts. Even at such a time as this, her
woman's care for these did not slumber.

"You will get nothing to eat now I am away,"
she said. "You will have no regular meals, I
know. You will be uncomfortable and wretched
in every way, I am certain." And then she
extorted promises from him that he would not let
himself be starved, that he would keep up good
fires, and, above all things, that he would never
let the hope of a happy termination to their
present troubles flag within him. Moreover,
she sent all sorts of messages to the servant,
Charlotte, giving her directions how to order
the household during her mistress's absence, so
that all things should be well arranged, as far
as the thing was possible.

And there were times when the two sat quite