she poured forth all the story of the trial, and
of the means by which her evidence had been obtained, listening at first
with a cold, cynical smile, like one who is prepared for falsehood, and
beyond its power; but presently he drooped his head and hid his
features. She knew that she had persuaded him of her fidelity, but
feared that behind those wrinkled hands there still lay a ruthless
purpose. She had exculpated herself, but only (of necessity) by showing
in blacker colors the malice of his enemies. She knew that he had sworn
to destroy them root and branch; and there was one green bough which he
had already done his worst to bend to evil ways. "Richard, Richard!"
said she, softly.

He withdrew his chair with a movement which she mistook for one of
loathing.

"He hates me for their sake," thought she, "although he knows me to be
innocent. How much more must he hate those who made me seem so guilty!"
But, in truth, his withdrawal from her touch had a very different
explanation. He would have kissed her, and held out both his hands, but
for the blood which he dreaded might be even now upon them. He saw that
she loved him still, and had ever done so, even when she seemed his foe:
all the old affection that he thought had been dead within him awoke to
life, and yet he dared not give it voice.

"You have said my husband was alive and well, Richard?"

"I said I had left him so," answered he, hoarsely.

"Then you have spared him thus far; spare him still, even for my sake;
and, for Heaven's sake, spare my son! Harden not your heart against one
more dear to me by far than life itself. He has done you no wrong."

Richard shook his head; he yearned to clasp her to his breast; he could
have cried, "I forgive them all," but he could not trust himself to
speak, lest he should say, "I love you."

"You have seen my boy, Richard, many times. The friendship you have
simulated for him must have made you know how warm-hearted and kind and
unsuspicious his nature is. You have listened to his merry laugh, and
felt the sunshine of his gayety. Oh! can you have the heart to harm
him?"

Still he did not speak; he scarcely heard her words. The murdered man
was standing between her and him; and he would always stand there, seen
by him, though not by her. From the grave itself he had come forth to
triumph over him to the end.

"Richard"--her voice had sunk to a tremulous whisper--"I must save my
son, and save you from yourself, no