"While I live you are safe," rejoined Trenchard; "after my death I can answer for nothing. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. There was no one at all in this room, but through the half-open door of one of the small apartments that gave upon it she had a glimpse of two very young girls sitting at a littered table and writing briskly. “I want to know who you are. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so.
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