CHAPTER XXVIII

Guida's once blithe, rose-coloured face was pale as ivory, the mouth had
a look of deep sadness, and the step was slow; but the eye was clear and
steady, and her hair, brushed under the black crape of the bonnet as
smoothly as its nature would admit, gave to the broad brow a setting of
rare attraction and sombre nobility. It was not a face that knew inward
shame, but it carried a look that showed knowledge of life's cruelties
and a bitter sensitiveness to pain. Above all else it was fearless, and
it had no touch of the consciousness or the consequences of sin; it was
purity itself.

It alone should have proclaimed abroad her innocence, though she said no
word in testimony. To most people, however, her dauntless sincerity only
added to her crime and to the scandalous mystery. Yet her manner awed
some, while her silence held most back. The few who came to offer
sympathy, with curiousness in their eyes and as much inhumanity as pity
in their hearts, were turned back gently but firmly, more than once with
proud resentment.

So it chanced that soon only Maitresse Aimable came--she who asked no
questions, desired no secrets--and Dormy Jamais.

Dormy had of late haunted the precincts of the Place du Vier Prison,
and was the only person besides Maitresse Aimable whom Guida welcomed.
His tireless feet went clac-clac past her doorway, or halted by it,
or entered in when it pleased him. He was more a watch-dog than Biribi;
he fetched and carried; he was silent and sleepless--always sleepless.