found themselves in the cell of the prisoner's Nail-wrought work while
Nesta had to take Sowerby's hand for help at a passage here and there
along the narrow outer castle-walls. And Mr. Barmby, upon occasions, had
set that dimple in Nesta's cheek quivering, though Simeon Fenellan was
not at hand, and there was no telling how it was done, beyond the
evidence that Victor willed it so.

From the day of the announcement of Lakelands, she had been brought more
into contact with his genius of dexterity and foresight than ever
previously: she had bent to the burden of it more; had seen herself and
everybody else outstripped--herself, of course; she did not count in a
struggle with him. But since that red dawn of Lakelands, it was almost
as if he had descended to earth from the skies. She now saw his
mortality in the miraculous things he did. The reason of it was, that
through the perceptible various arts and shifts on her level, an opposing
spirit had plainer view of his aim, to judge it. She thought it a mean
one.

The power it had to hurry her with the strength of a torrent to an end
she dreaded, impressed her physically; so far subduing her mind, in
consequence, as to keep the idea of absolute resistance obscure, though
her bosom heaved with the breath; but what was her own of a mind hung
hovering above him, criticizing; and involuntarily, discomfortingly.
She could have prayed to be led blindly or blindly dashed on: she could
trust him for success; and her critical mind seemed at times a treachery.
Still she was compelled to judge.

When he said to her at night, pressing both her hands: 'This is the news
of the day, my love! It's death at last. We shall soon be thanking
heaven for freedom'; her fingers writhed upon his and gripped them in a