The Escape of the Notorious Sir William Heans by William Gosse Hay

The weather culminated on that Friday after the Shaxtons signal in a fierce hot day, and Sir William Heans in his room in the evening kept a vigilant eye on the hills, though hardly expecting the native to be yet across, and only half looking for her flaring summons so close upon Matilda's visit. He could not, however, refrain from a little despondency when the serried tiers of the forests sank unillumined into the darkness, vanishing without a spark, nor could he altogether restrain his mind from picturing the many accidents which might have befallen the woman in those cathedralled fastnesses, or in and about the necks of East Bay and Eaglehawk. A change of weather blowing up in the night, the following day was cold, so for that occasion the precious chance of communication had gone.

On the back of this disappointment came the fellow-trouble bordering on the keen and grim. He had been set one morning some rather distasteful writing in the Punishment Offices, when along came Captain. Booth's servant with a message summoning him to the Commandant's villa. With his heart in his mouth, Heans left his pen and followed the man through the archway and along the street to the gate. All the way up, and while he waited in the garden till Booth was at leisure to join him, his mind fluttered in agitation about the trouble of the parole. Week after week had passed, and here he was, without doubt, to be asked what was the result of his rather dubious deliberations for and against. How might he best again put it aside? How delay yet a few days? There was this parry, that RIPOSTE, lame enough against that keen weapon. And supposing he was unable to parry it, and Booth stripped him sudden of his play, with no defence left him--only refusal? If he found he could not give them his word? Ah, Mr. Heans, what now? What would they do with the loose string allowed, the little extraordinary freedoms, those shreds and tatters of suddenly so priceless latitude?