His colour went and came for witness against him.
'Speak low,' he said, glancing at a near window, 'lest my mother hear,' and at that a second score went down against his innocence.
'You put to sea with him; you came back alone. Where is he?'
In his haste Christian answered to more than was asked.
'Alive he was when I saw him last. Where he now is I know little as you.'
The youngest put in a word. 'Alive! But was any plank under him? Will you take your oath that he was alive and safe, and unhurt by you?'
At that red guilt flew over his face, for he could not.
Another turn of words might give him a chance, but he had no skill to play for it. The imposition of an oath he might not resent with his old high claim: a promise had been broken, though they knew not, and his head sank for shame. That, with his brief pause, sealed conviction.
One muttered, 'Now I would not believe him though he swore'; but the other three frowned silence upon him, the spokesman saying, 'We do require an oath before we ask further.'
No protest did he offer to hinder a quick despatch. He uttered the form prescribed, though conscience and pride alike took deep wounds of it. Afterwards it was told against him how his countenance worked, as for the first time an oath had been forced upon him.