Another shriek broke the heavy air of the yard. The surgeon fumbled with his watch chain, but could not catch it with his damp fingers.

“Who does she call for?”

“The chaplain, the magistrate—the hangman in particular, which is beyond reason.” Wilmot glanced at Carver, who made no answer, as though recalling his customary reserve.

“The hangman also, you say?” asked Moynihan.

“She is mad, aye, to name the executioner in the same breath as the colonial secretary,” said Wilmot. “But she says if the beaks won’t hear her, the hangman will.”

“She is plainly distressed,” said Moynihan.

“Would it please you to look in?” said the gaoler drily.

“Lead on,” said Moynihan, with a quick, angry motion of the hand. “Let me see what’s the matter.”

The surgeon could detect neither concern nor curiosity in Carver, and yet something stirred the hangman, for he followed also.

THE SOLITARY CELLS, separate from the crowded, infested barrack-rooms where most of the prisoners were housed in the main block, stood opposite the old “Females’ Room.”

Only when the cell door opened did the screaming abate. Moynihan heard a harsh panting as he advanced. The woman within had torn the coarse blanket to shreds, and nothing else was left with her in the cell. He faced a haggard woman squatting on the stones with her hair undone and wild about a pale, greasy face. Her hands were bent and stained with old blood about the broken nails.

“How now,” said Moynihan steadily, “what’s the matter?”

“Who’s this?” she asked the gaoler. Her leg-irons dragged on the stone.

“Assistant surgeon. The gentleman here is confounded by your racket.”

She spat on the floor. “I don’t want him. I want my particulars taken down properly. I want to be heard before the governor. Better yet, bring me Carver. Then I may relent.”

“In time, in time, my lass.”

Her voice sank to something rough and cunning. “I ought not to be here. You’ve no right to hold me here.”

“We none of us have a say in that,” replied the gaoler.

The woman lunged at Moynihan, and he was startled, rearing and knocking back Wilmot, who had edged in behind him. The surgeon cried out and reached to steady himself, while the prisoner lunged past the guard and bolted to the door. Momentarily, the hangman crossed the opening, fixing his arms to either side of the frame.

The gaoler whirled about. Moynihan caught himself against the wall. But the woman reeled, staring at Carver.

“Who’s this?”

“Now, Meg,” said Wilmot, “don’t you know?”

“Who’s this!”

“This is Mr. Carver, the jolly hangman himself, come to pay his respects. Say how-d’ye-do.”

The woman swayed and blinked, and lifted her shaking hands as though to caress his face.

“Carrion-crow,” she husked. “Turncoat. Traitor. Oh, don’t you know me?” And then her heaving breath turned to something low and harsh, like laughter.

Carver stood still and straight; his face was fixed, but the corner of his mouth quirked up after an interval. “So,” he said, “Meg Harper. Has it come to this at last?”

Wilmot recovered his balance, and wrapped a thick arm around the woman’s neck, hauling her off balance and back into the rear of the cell.

Carver strode forward, and his hand fell heavy on the doctor’s shoulder.

“Get out,” growled Carver. “You’re no use to her here.”

The three men returned to the passageway while the cursing gaoler retrieved his cap and shut up the cell.

“It’s on you, Gabriel Carver,” the woman screamed through the door. “See to it! I know you! Be sure I know you! You’ll hang before I do, otherwise!”

Moynihan straightened his coat, and necktie and waistcoat, one by one.

“I take it you know that woman?” he said faintly. A faint burble, like laughter, came from behind the door.

“That woman is my wife,” said the hangman. “She’ll be quiet enough now.”