house being turned into a jail. Perhaps you had better not leave this chamber till you go to bed."
Francesca felt Lucy tremble from head to foot; she could scarcely support her; and—for with strange rapidity does the truth flash upon the mind—a terrible belief had taken possession of herself. She strove to ask the question, but her voice failed her. Lawrence Aylmer was too hurried to notice the singular silence with which his communication was received, and turned to leave the room. The agony of anticipated suspense rose in all its horrors before Francesca: "Best to know the worst—" She gasped for breath; but the effort succeeded—"Who is the prisoner?" asked she, in a forced, unnatural voice.
"Mr. Evelyn. He is brought here to await Major Johnstone's arrival, when, they say, he will instantly be shot."
The door closed after him lightly; and yet it was like a peal of thunder. It was followed by a sudden fall—she turned, and saw Lucy stretched insensible on the ground.
Francesca felt at first as if she had no power to succour her. Evelyn so near—a prisoner, and about to die—might well absorb every other thought. She wrung her hands in utter hopeless-
