Standing with my
back to the door, so that the sentry, who was given to popping his head in
to have a look at me, could not catch me unawares, I opened the paper. It
was a letter. It was written by a woman. The woman was Margaret.
"You will be taken to-morrow to Carlisle. On the way friends will rescue
you and bring you to me. Fear nothing, say nothing, and all will be well.
Till to-morrow, dear Oliver. Destroy this. MARG. W."
It went hard against the grain to destroy this precious missive. I hid in
the corner, and kissed it ravenously a hundred times. How straight and
true the pen had ploughed its way across the paper! It was just such
writing as I had expected of her, the resolute escription of her sweet,
resolute self. Nor was the problem of destroying it easy to solve, since I
had no fire, and there was no sure hiding-place accessible to my manacled
hands. I mastered the difficulty heroically by eating the letter with my
bread and butter.
It was even harder to pretend to be dull and sluggish with such a whirl
of happy thoughts in my mind. I was her "dear Oliver," dear enough to make
her risk her own life in saving mine.
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