she stopped abruptly; a shudder ran through her slight frame. For a
few moments her hands clutched at the sharp stones, then she sprang to
her feet, her body rigid, her eyes wild and staring. The end had come.
"Ovide, I am here!" she gasped, and then fell heavily backward,
rolling down the pile of stones into the hole near the wall, which the
carters had made. The weary eyes were wide open and turned toward the
sky, but they no longer comprehended; the disordered brain no longer
conjured up fantastic scenes, nor gave birth to diseased thoughts; the
rest she had so long needed had come to her at last, and she
slept--slept that deep, dreamless sleep from which not even he, for
whom she had sacrificed so much, could wake her.

As the light grew more distinct, there stood revealed, on the top of
the walls, four sentry-boxes. At short intervals, through the mist,
the forms of the sentries could be seen, as they slowly paced to and
fro, with rifles resting on their shoulders.

The thick air was suddenly pierced by the penitentiary clock
discordantly striking the hour of five. Hardly had its echoes died
away when the clanking of chains and the decisive voices of the guards
could be heard, issuing from the great stone building in the centre of
the yard. Half an hour later the heavily-barred doors of the
penitentiary swung open, and the convicts, surrounded by guards, filed
slowly out into the courtyard. Before the men were taken to the
various places of labor, they were ranged in single file, and their
numbers called out.

Nearly all the prisoners responded in sullen, rebellious tones. But
the voice that answered to No. 317 was full of contrition and
hopelessness. Six months before, the young convict who bore this