As the words rang in the ears of the horrified group, Olivia left her father’s side, and approached Faradeane.
For a moment she stood speechless, her dilated eyes fixed on his face, her lips moving, her hand pressed to her heart.
He did not flinch; but there was no assurance of his innocence in his eyes, nothing but a sad impassiveness.
“Why—why do you not tell them?” broke from her, at last. “Why do you not tell them that you are—innocent?” and she caught his arm and clung to it. “You are innocent! Tell them so! Tell them so!”
It was an awful moment. It was an ordeal compared with which the torture of the rack is as nothing. Bartley Bradstone’s face blanched, and he made a slight movement; then, as Faradeane raised his eyes, he fell back, for he read in them the assurance that his substitute would remain firm.
“I have nothing to say,” said the calm, sad voice; “I am quite ready,” and he turned his face away from her.
Her hand lingered on his arm in an imploring clasp for a moment, then, without a cry, she swayed slightly and fell to the ground.
Faradeane bent down to raise her, but Bradstone and the squire—half a dozen of the horrified crowd, indeed—sprang forward, and he drew back with a sigh.
“For God’s sake take me away!” he said to the constable, hoarsely. “I—I cannot bear much more!”
Lord Carfield signed to the constable to go into the library, and Faradeane followed, stopping for a second to glance back as they carried Olivia up the stairs, with a yearning and agonized expression in his eyes.