The integrity of nature that spoke in these words came to the
hearer's heart with wondrous power and freshness. He looked at
Elizabeth; she was gazing full on him, and lofty was the bearing of
the girl; she had set her own fears and all danger and suspicion at
defiance in these words. Partly he saw and understood, and he
answered,--

"I am not angry. You surprised me. I know you are not curious on
your own account. But you can do nothing for me. I did fight against
the Church, but not any Church that you know. I fought against an
intolerant organization, boundless superstition, shameful idolatry,
because it was making a slave and a criminal of the world.--You can
do nothing for me."

"Nothing?"

"No, dear child, nothing."

"Is it because you think I am a child that you say so?" asked
Elizabeth. "I am not a child. I knew you must be innocent. I will do
anything for you that any one can do. Try me."

The prisoner looked again at the pleader. Truly, she was not a child.
It is not in childhood to be nerved by such courage and such longing
as were in her speech, as that speech was endorsed by her bearing.
His thought toward her seemed to change in this look.

"Can you write, Elizabeth?" asked he.