away, she did not see. Was he tempted, if only in an infinitesimal
degree, to suggest a plea of mitigating circumstances--not for his own
sake but for hers; that she might feel less keenly that sense of hurt,
of outraged pride, for having smiled on him, admitted him to a certain
frank, free intimacy? Before the words fell from his lips, however, she
turned; her gaze arrested his purpose, made him feel poignantly,
acutely, the distance now between them. "What were you," she hesitated,
emphasized over-sharply the word, "transported for?"

An instant his eyes flashed suddenly back at her, as if he were on the
point of answering, telling her all, disavowing; but to what end? To ask
more of her than of others, throw himself on her generosity?

"What does it matter?"

True; what did it matter to her; he had been in prisons before, by his
own words.

"Your name, of course, is not John Steele?"

He confessed it a purloined asset.

"What was it?"

He looked at her--beyond! To a storm-tossed ship, a golden-haired child,
her curls in disorder, moving with difficulty, yet clinging so
steadfastly to a small cage. His name? It may be he heard again the loud
pounding and knocking; held her once more to his breast, felt the
confiding, soft arms.