"And then? They have evidence against him, you said so—the footprints, the pistol, perhaps more that this man can manufacture. Paul, he will be found guilty?"
"I—I don't know."
"But you think so?"
"It's possible, mother, but—I've done all I can."
"He will be found guilty," she repeated, "this innocent young man will be found guilty. You know it, and—you give up the case."
"That's unfair. I give up the case because your life is more precious to me than the lives of fifty young men."
The old lady paused a moment, holding his firm hand in her two slender ones, then she said sweetly, yet in half reproach: "My son, do you think your life is less precious to me than mine is to you?"
"Why—why, no," he said.
"It isn't, but we can't shirk our burdens, Paul." She pointed simply to the picture of a keen-eyed soldier over the fireplace, a brave, lovable face. "If we are men we do our work; if we are women, we bear what comes. That is how your father felt when he left me to—to—you understand, my boy?"
"Yes, mother."