Barnaby sat in his dungeon. Beside him, with his hand in hers, sat his
mother; worn and altered, full of grief, and heavy-hearted, but the same
to him.

"Mother," he said, "how long--how many days and nights--shall I be kept
here?"

"Not many, dear. I hope not many."

"If they kill me--they may; I heard it said--what will become of Grip?"

The sound of the word suggested to the raven his old phrase, "Never say
die!" But he stopped short in the middle of it as if he lacked the heart
to get through the shortest sentence.

"Will they take his life as well as mine?" said Barnaby. "I wish they
would. If you and I and he could die together, there would be none to
feel sorry, or to grieve for us. Don't you cry for me. They said that I
am bold, and so I am, and so I will be."

The turnkey came to close the cells for the night, the widow tore
herself away, and Barnaby was alone.

He was to die. There was no hope. They had tried to save him. The
locksmith had carried petitions and memorials to the fountain-head with
his own hands. But the well was not one of mercy, and Barnaby was to
die. From the first, his mother had never left him, save at night; and,
with her beside him, he was contented.

"They call me silly, mother. They shall see--to-morrow."