The fire still burned brightly. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. "Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. “How I am to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or failing that, what I can sell.
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