The man said this with the air of one who reflected sadly upon the infirmities of human nature, and really felt shocked at the gross cupidity that himself had tempted; and so it was. He did not reflect that he himself was there for no purpose on earth, but to barter his own soul for the very yellow dross, only in a larger amount; that he was ready to yield to this man’s bartered treachery; that all the difference between himself and the man he tempted, lay in the price which each set upon his integrity. But the great villain despised the lesser sincerely, and sighed that human nature could be so degraded. So it is all over the world. Those who shroud their crimes in purple and fine linen, ever do and ever will look down with benign contempt on those who fold lesser crimes scantily in poverty and rags; so scantily that the world sees them as they are, coarse, rude, and glaring.
Thus, shaking their heads and sighing over the degeneracy of the human heart, these two arch-villains entered the cell of De Grainges, the bigamist, leaving the officer without to gloat over his piece of gold.
A tall man, pale from confinement, and yet possessed of a certain air of languid elegance, sat within the cell writing. He looked up, as the two visitors entered, and regarded them with an expression of nervous surprise, but observing that they were gentlemen in appearance, arose courteously, and placed the chair, in which he had been sitting, for Ross. The cell contained but two seats, and the prisoner stood up with his arms folded, and leaning in a position that had much grace in it against the wall.
“You have come, gentlemen,” said the prisoner, in a low, sad voice—“you have doubtless come to tell me that the time of my sentence has arrived?”
“No,” said Ross; “that would be a painful task, and one from which we are happily saved. We come, as friends, to ask some questions regarding this singular case. Perhaps we may have the power—we certainly have the will—to serve you.”
“It is too late,” replied the prisoner, sadly. “My trial is over. Why they have not sentenced me before this is incomprehensible.”
“To you, perhaps, but not to us. You have strong friends outside; those who have done something in keeping back the sentence, and may do more—obtain, for instance, a new trial.”
“To what end?” questioned the prisoner. “I am guilty. I have confessed it. In the wild delirium of a passion that was never equaled in the heart of man, I married the most confiding and lovely creature that ever lived. The fraud was detected. My wife—my living wife forced herself into the home where I had sheltered my falsely-won bride. Zulima would not love the villain who had wronged her. She left me; and without her I care very little whether it is to a prison or a grave.”
“But what if Zulima loved you yet? What if she only desired that in this trial your right to her could be established?”
The prisoner shook his head.