I turned and groped up it.

On, and on, and on, and at last I brought up suddenly against iron bars, and knew where I was.

And never, sure, to any man was the feel of iron bars so grateful as was the touch of these to me.
I shook them gently, but the gate was locked.

I strained my ears for any sound inside, strained them so that I heard the breaking of the waves on the rock below the window at the other end of the rock chamber.
Then I cried softly, "Carette!"-- and listened--and thought I heard a movement.
"Carette!" I cried again.
And out of that blessed darkness, and the doubt and the bewilderment, came the sweetest voice in all the world, in a scared whisper, as one doubtful of her own senses-- "Who is it?
Who calls ?" "It is I, Carette--Phil Carre;" and in a moment she was against the bars, and my hands touched her and hers touched me.
"Phil!" she cried, in vast amazement, and clung tight to my hands to make sure.

"Is it possible?
Oh, my dear, is it truly, truly you?
I knew your voice, but--I thought I dreamed, and then I thought it the voice of the dead.