She had deserved none of Dalton's cruelty, and yet she had withered under its lash.

This was the end; beyond, lay only a slow, lingering death, with her torture increasing as the hours crept on.
The sound of the turnkey's hand on the lock roused her to consciousness.
"Bring her outside where I can talk to her," said Father Cruse, pointing to a bench in the corridor.
She followed the guard mechanically, as a whipped spaniel follows its master, her steps dragging, her body trembling, her head bowed as if awaiting some new humiliation.

She had no strength to resist.

Something in the priest's quiet, in the way he trod beside her, seemed to have reassured her, for as she sank on the bench beside him, she leaned over, laid one hand on his sleeve, and asked feebly: "Are they going to let me go ?" "That I cannot say, my good woman; I can only hope so." He looked toward the guard.

"Better leave us for a while, Bunky." The turnkey touched his cap and mounted the narrow iron steps to the room above.
Father Cruse waited until the footsteps had ceased to echo in the corridor, and then turned to Lady Barbara.