irst. Then he said in a low tone:

"No law can re-establish me."

The judge added:

"Bethink you, if you are Paul Ritson, and an innocent man, the law can
restore you to your young wife."

Visibly moved by this reference, the convict's eyes wandered to where
Greta sat beside him, and the tension of his gaze relaxed.

The judge began again:

"You have been recognized by two witnesses--one claiming to be your
brother, the other to be your wife--as Paul Ritson. Are you that
person?"

The convict's face showed the agony he suffered. In a vague, uncertain,
puzzled way he was thinking of the consequences of his answer. If he
said he was Paul Ritson, it seemed to him that it must leak out that he
was not the eldest legitimate son of his father. Then all the fabric of
his mother's honor would there and then tumble to the ground. He
recalled his oath; could he pronounce six words and not violate it? No,
not six syllables. How those mouthing gossips would glory to see a good
name trailed in the dust!

"Are you Paul Ritson, the eldest son and heir of Allan Ritson?"

The convict looked again at Greta. She rose to her feet beside him. All
her soul was in her face, and cried:

"Answer, answer!"

"I can not answer," said the convict, in a loud, piercing voice.

At that terrible moment his strength seemed to leave him. He sunk
backward into the chair from which Greta had risen.

She stood over him and put her hand tenderly on his head.

"Tell them it is true," she pleaded, "tell them you are my husband; tell
them so; oh, tell them, tell them!" she cried in a tone of piteous
supplication.

He raised to hers his weary eyes with a dumb cry for mercy from the
appeal of love.

Only Hugh Ritson, of all who were there present, understood what was in
the convict's heart.

"Paul Ritson is the rightful heir of his father and his mother's
legitimate son," he muttered audibly.

The convict turned to where his brother sat, and looked at him with a
face that seemed to grapple for the missing links of a chain of facts.

Counsel for the defense arose.

"It will be seen that the unhappy convict witness will not be used as an
instrument of deception," he said. "He is Paul Drayton, and can not be
made to pretend that he is Paul Ritson."

The hush of awe in the court was broken by the opening of a door behind
the bench. Two women stood on the threshold. One of them was small,
wrinkled, and old. She was Mrs. Drayton. The other w