"I have not hurt her," she cried; "I tell you she never received harm from me."
There was only one thought in her mind, to preserve Elsie from his anger—the worst had come to her now. Her present agony was too great for dread—the shame of the world—the most loathsome prison—nothing could bring such pangs as this wrenching away of hope and happiness.
She sat upright on the ground, folding her hands in her lap. Weaker women would have fainted, perhaps gone mad, but when the first dizzy whirl had left her senses, she could see and think clearly.
"With this man you alone buried the child. Will you own it, or shall I charge the servants as your accomplices—will you carry out your guilt to the last, and let others suffer that you may escape?"
"No, no! I do not struggle. See, I do not defend myself. Let it fall on me! But no murder, do not charge me with murder. Oh, I am not so bad as that—I could not harm one of God's creatures."
"Is not your sin worse than murder? Why, the blackest criminal has white hands compared to yours! You whom I loved and trusted—you have dragged a man's soul through the depths of your sin."
"I have not, I have not!" she broke forth.
He pointed to the box—he turned his finger to the man who stood in the shadows, shrouded with blackness, like the fiend he was. What could she say—how could she deny with that evidence at her feet.
"Oh, my God, have mercy!" she groaned.
"Don't take his name on your lips—don't curse yourself more deeply by a prayer!"