“More nearly than you think. I have told you of the accusation which hangs over your head; weigh it well, and deliberate what are your chances of escape. We must not waste time in discussing your innocence. The jury who will try the cause will be more difficult of belief than you suspect; neither the opinions you are charged with, your subsequent escape, nor your career in France, will contribute to your exculpation, even had you evidence to adduce in your favor. But you have not; your only witness is equally removed as by death itself. On what do you depend, then? Conscious innocence! Nine out of every ten who mount the scaffold proclaim the same; but I never heard that the voice that cried it stifled the word 'guilty.' No, sir; I tell you solemnly, you will be condemned!”
The tone of his voice as he spoke the last few words made my very blood run cold. The death of a soldier on the field of battle had no terrors for me; but the execrated fate of a felon I could not confront. The pallor of my cheek, the trembling of my limbs, must have betrayed my emotion; for even Basset seemed to pity me, and pressed me down into a chair.
“There is one way, however, to avoid all the danger,” said he, after a pause; “an easy and a certain way both. You have heard of the advertisements for information respecting your death, which it was surmised had occurred abroad. Now you are unknown here,—without a single acquaintance to recognize or remember you; why should not you, under another name, come forward with these proofs? By so doing, you secure your own escape and can claim the reward.”
“What! perjure myself that I may forfeit my inheritance!”
“As to the inheritance,” said he, sneeringly, “your tenure does not promise a very long enjoyment of it.”
“Were it but a day,—an hour!” exclaimed I, passionately; “I will make no compromise with my honor. On their own heads be it who sentence an innocent man to death; better such, even on a scaffold, than a life of ignominy and vain regret.”
“The dark hours of a jail change men's sentiments wonderfully,” said he, slowly. “I have known some who faced death in its wildest and most appalling shape, shrink from it like cowards when it came in the guise of a common executioner. Come, sir, be advised by me; reflect at least on what I have said, and if there be any path in life where a moderate sum may assist you—”
“Peace, sir! I beg of you to be silent. It may be that your counsel is prompted by kindly feeling towards me; but if you would have me think so, say no more of this,—my mind is made up.”
“Wait until to-morrow, in any case; perhaps some other plan may suggest itself. What say you to America? Have you any objection to go there?”
“Had you asked me the question an hour since, I had replied, 'None whatever.' Now it is different; my departure would be like the flight of a guilty man. I cannot do it.”