he was comfortable now in the home of a hospitable neighbor and
declared she would soon be on her feet again. It was this faith that saved
her, vowed Ernestine, her devoted companion; but the doctor laughed and
said it was the presence of M. Paul.

At any rate, within the week all danger was past and Coquenil observed
uneasily that, along with her strength and gay humor, his mother was
rapidly recovering her faculty of asking embarrassing questions and of
understanding things that had not been told her. In the matter of keen
intuitions it was like mother like son.

So, delay as he would and evade as he would, the truth had finally to be
told, the whole unqualified truth; he had given up this case that he had
thought so important, he had abandoned a fight that he had called the
greatest of his life.

"Why have you done it, my boy?" the old lady asked him gently, her
searching eyes fixed gravely on him. "Tell me--tell me everything."

And he did as she bade him, just as he used to when he was little; he told
her all that had happened from the crime to the capture, then of the
assassin's release and his own baffling failure at the very moment of
success.

His mother listened with absorbed interest, she thrilled, she radiated, she
sympathized; and she shivered at the thought of such power for evil.

When he had finished, she lay silent, thinking it all over, not wishing to
speak hastily, while Paul stroked her white hand.

"And the young man?" she asked presently. "The one who is innocent? What
about _him?_"

"He is in prison, he will be tried."

"And then? They have evidence against him, you said so--the footprints, the
pistol, perhaps more that this man can manufacture. Paul, he will be found
guilty?"

"I--I don't know."

"But you think so?"

"It's possible, mother, but--I've done all I can."

"He will be found guilty," she repeated, "this innocent young man will be
found guilty. You know it, and--you give up the case."

"That's unfair. I give up the case because your life is more precious to me
than the lives of fifty young men."

The old lady paused a moment, holding his firm hand in her two slender
ones, then she said sweetly, yet in half reproach: "My son, do you think
your life is less precious to me than mine is to you?"

"Why--why, no," he said.

"It isn't, but we can't shirk our burdens, Paul." She pointed simply to the
picture of a keen-eyed soldier over the fireplace, a brave, lovable face.