coming in through the unshaded window. Sitting on the only chair, with
his arms spread over the table, and his head resting on them, was the
prisoner. His face was hidden, but the coarse, disordered dress, the
long hair, half grey, half black, lying loose and shaggy over his bony
hands, the dreary broken-down expression of his attitude, made a picture
not to be looked upon without pity. Yet the thing that seemed most
pathetic of all was that utter change in the man which, even at the
first glance, was so plainly evident. This visitor, standing silent and
unnoticed by the door, had come in full of recollections, not even of
him as she had seen him last, but of him as she had married him twenty
years ago. Of _him?_ It seemed almost incredible--yet for the very sake
of the past and for the pitiful alteration now, she felt her heart yearn
towards that desolate figure, and going softly forward she laid her hand
upon his shoulder.

"Christian!" she said in a low and trembling voice.

The prisoner slowly moved, as if waking from a doze. He raised his
head, pushed back his tangled hair and looked at her.

What a face! It needed all her pity to help her to repress a shudder;
but there was no recognition in the dull heavy eyes.

"Christian," she repeated. "See, I am your wife. I am Mary, who left
Moose Island so many years ago."

Still he looked at her in the same dull way, scarcely seeming to see
her.

"Mary," he repeated mechanically. "She went away." Then changing to his