tify at this trial.

Whether they could have told anything of value to Jeffrey Whiting was
not known. Certainly they were now gone, and, almost surely, by the
connivance of the railroad people. The Bishop had their confession in
his pocket at this minute, but there was nothing in it concerning the
murder. He had intended to read it into the record of the trial. He
saw that he would not be allowed to do so.

One thing and only one thing would now avail Jeffrey Whiting. Jeffrey
Whiting would be condemned to death, unless, within the hour, a man or
woman should rise up in this room and swear: Jeffrey Whiting did not
kill Samuel Rogers. Rafe Gadbeau did the deed. I saw him. Or--He told
me so.

The Bishop remembered how that day last winter he had set the boy upon
this course which had brought him here into this court and into the
shadow of public disgrace and death. If Jeffrey Whiting had actually
fired the shot that had cut off a human life, would not he, Joseph,
Bishop of Alden, have shared a measure of the responsibility? He
would.

And if Jeffrey Whiting, through no fault of his own, but through a
chain of circumstances, stood now in danger of death, was not he,
Joseph Winthrop, who had started the boy into the midst of these
circumstances, in a way responsible? He was.

Could Joseph Winthrop by rising up in this court and saying: "Rafe
Gadbeau killed Samuel Rogers--He told me so"--could he thus save
Jeffrey Whiting from a felon's fate? He could. Nine words, no more,
would do.

And if he could so save Jeffrey Whiting and did not do what was
necessary--did not speak those nine words--would he, Joseph Winthrop,
be responsible for the death or at least the imprisonment and ruin of
Jeffrey Whiting? He would.

Then what would Joseph Winthrop do? Would he speak those nine words?
He would not.

There was no claim of life or death that had the force to break the
seal and let those nine words escape his lips.

There was no conflict, no battle, no indecision in the Bishop's mind
as he sat there waiting for his name to be called. He loved the boy
who sat there in the prisoner's stand before him. He felt responsible
for him and the situation in which he was. He cared nothing for the
dead man or the dead man's secret, as such. Yet he would go up there
and defy the law of humanity and the law of men, because he was bound
by the law that is beyond all other law; the law of the eternal
salvation of men's souls.

But ther