"Upon Gautran's own confession, given to me, alone, on a lonely road, within an hour after the delivery of the verdict."
He saw the incredulous looks with which this would be received. He put himself in the place of the public, and he asked:
"Why, at such a time, in such a spot, did Gautran confess to you? What motive had he? You are not a priest, and the high road is not a confessional."
He could supply to this question no answer which common-sense would accept.
And say that Gautran were questioned, as he would assuredly be. He would deny the statement point-blank. Liberty is sweet to all men.
Then it would be one man's statement against another's; he would be on an equality with Gautran, reduced to his level; and in the judgment of numbers of people Gautran would have the advantage over him. Sides would be taken; he himself, in a certain sense, would be placed upon his trial, and public resentment, which now was smothered and would soon be quite hushed, would break out against him.
Was he strong enough to withstand this? Could he arrest the furious torrent and stand unwounded on the shore, pure and scatheless in the eyes of men?
He doubted. He was too profound a student of human nature not to know that his fair fame would be blotted, and that there would be a stain upon his reputation which would cling to him to the last day of his life.
Still he questioned himself. Should he dare it, and brave it, and bow his head? Who humbles himself lays himself open to the blow--and men are not merciful when the chance is offered to them. But he would stand clear in his own eyes; his conscience would approve. To none but himself would this be known. Inward approval would be his sole reward, his sole compensation. A hero's work, however.
For a moment or two he glowed at the contemplation. He soon cooled down, and with a smile, partly of self-pity, partly of self-contempt, proceeded to the calmer consideration of the matter.