They looked at each other for some moments without speaking. Both
noted the fresh lines of suffering in each other's faces. They had
been through the long valley of the shadow of sorrow since they had
last met. But O'Connell thought, as he looked at her, that all the
suffering he had gone through passed from him as some hideous dream.
It was worth it--these months of torture--just to be looking at her
now. Worth the long black nights--the labours in the heat of the
day, with life's outcasts around him; the taunts of his gaolers:
worth all the infamy of it--just to stand there looking at her.

She had taken his life in her two little hands.

He had bathed his soul all these months in the thought of her. He
had prayed night and day that he might see her standing near him
just as she was then: see the droop of her eye and the silk of her
hair and feel the touch of her hand and hear the exquisite
tenderness of her voice.

He stood mute before her.

She held out her hand and said simply

"Thank you for coming."

"It was good of you to let me," he answered hoarsely. "They have not
broken your spirit or your courage?"

"No," he replied tensely; "they are the stronger."