"And if it is not disproved—what then?" she asked. "Suppose they call it murder?"
Caspar drew himself up: a certain displeasure began to mark itself upon his features.
"Need you ask me?"
"Yes, I need. I want you to consider the answer that you would give. I have a reason."
Her eager eyes, hot and burning in a face that was strangely white, pled for her. Caspar relented a little, but bent his brows as he replied—
"The extreme penalty of the law, I suppose. It is absurd—but, of course, it is possible. It is not a case in which I should expect penal servitude for life to be substituted, supposing that I were found guilty. But I fail to see your motive for asking what must be to me a rather painful question."
"Oh, you are strong! You can bear it!" she said, dropping her face upon her hands. Caspar gazed at her in amazement. He began to wonder whether she were going out of her mind. But before he could find any word of calming or consoling tendency, she flung down her hands and spoke again. "I want you to fix your mind on it for a moment, even although it hurts you," she said. "You are a strong man—you do not shrink from a thing because, it is a little painful. Think what it would mean for yourself, and not for yourself only; for your friends, for those who love you! A perpetual disgrace—a misery!"
"You seem anxious to assume that I shall be convicted," he said, still with displeasure.
"I tell you I am doing so on purpose. I want you to think of it. You know—you know as well as I do—that the chances are against you!"
"And if they are?"