“Against—against—whom?” gasped Lyon Berners white as death.
“Oh Heaven! You know! Do not ask me to sully her name with the words!” cried Captain Pendleton, utterly overcome by his emotions.
“Oh, my unhappy wife! Oh, my lost Sybil!” exclaimed Lyon Berners, reeling under the blow, half-expected though it might have been.
There was silence for a few minutes. Pendleton was the first to recover himself. He went up to his friend, touched him on the shoulder, and said:
“Berners, rouse yourself; the position requires the exertion of your utmost powers of mind and body. Calm yourself, and collect all your faculties. Come now let us sit down here and talk over the situation.”
Lyon permitted the captain to draw him away to a little distance, where they both sat down side by side, on a fallen tombstone.
“In the first place, how is your wife, and how does she sustain herself under this overwhelming disaster?” inquired Captain Pendleton, forcing himself to speak composedly.
“I do not think my dear innocent Sybil was able fully to appreciate the danger of her position, even as she stood before the rendering of that false and fatal verdict, she was so strong in her sense of innocence. She seemed to suffer most from the lesser evils involved in her exile from home.”
“Where is she, then?”
“Sleeping heavily in the church there; sleeping very heavily, from the united effects of mental and bodily fatigue and excitement.”