"But were you, before God, guilty of murder?"
She met his eyes steadily. He saw a quiver of pain sweep over her features, and the thin lips began to stir.
"He is dead, my innocent, my honest son. Nothing can harm him now. I have not suffered in vain. Before God I was not guilty of murder, but terribly guilty in taking this crime on myself: but it was to save him, and I cannot repent, I cannot repent, and in that lies double guilt!"
The stranger searched her features keenly as she spoke. Perhaps he was prepared for this answer; but the light that came over his face was full of compassion.
"Have you done with me?" questioned the old woman, in the meek, sad voice that had become habitual to her. "Perhaps you will not believe me; but God knows!"
The man turned from her and stepped into the matron's room.
The old woman sat down upon the bench from which she had arisen, took the coarse needle from the bosom of her dress, where she had fastened it when spoken to, and threaded it again; but her hand shook a little, and the thread baffled her confused vision. Then the strange gentleman came back again, smiling, and with moisture in his eyes.
"My good woman," he said, "put up your work. You did not know it, but I am the Governor of New York, and your pardon has just gone to the warden."
The needle dropped from one quivering old hand—a thread fell from its companion.
"Pardon for me!"