“I shall make no defense; I shall say nothing, but plead guilty, guilty of all. After that, what next?”
“Your sentence,” he replied, and the words died away on his lips.
“What will it be?” she asked.
“I cannot tell. My God! am I dreaming? Is it you, Hermione, asking me these terrible questions as though they concerned any other rather than yourself? I dare not think what it will be—the bare thought of you, a delicate, high-bred, gentle woman undergoing so shameful a death fills me with horror too great for words. I will not believe you did it,” he cried passionately, his face flushing with sudden hope.
“And I tell you,” she replied, with the same air of weariness and dejection, “that I am guilty of it all, and that I shall plead guilty before any judge in England. The law may do its worst to me; it can inflict no torture worse than life. I suppose, though, you will not tell me so, Kenelm, that I must die for the crime.”
He turned from her with a low moan.
“I thought my heart was harder,” he said. “I can bear no more, Hermione.”
“I have but one more question to ask. When will your detective arrive?”
“To-morrow,” he replied. “I am going, Hermione. I can bear no more.”
“You will not tell my father nor my mother until after I am gone, Kenelm?”