"For the prisoner—for—for Captain Rodolphe." She stammered the name with downcast eyes.
"No." Very calmly and very decidedly came his answer. "I have no pity for a man of that sort. I think he should be shot."
"Oh, do you?" she said with a gasp.
"Yes, I do. A treacherous scoundrel like that is worse than a murderer in my opinion. So is anyone who is fundamentally untrustworthy."
"Oh, but—but—Trevor—," she said, and suddenly there was a note of pleading in her halting words, "that includes the weak people with the wicked. Don't you think—that is rather hard?"
"Quite possibly." He made the admission in a tone she did not understand, and relapsed into silence.
She felt as if the subject were closed, and did not venture to pursue it.
But after a moment he surprised her by a quiet question: "Why don't you try to convince me that I am wrong?"
She looked up at him quickly, as if compelled. His eyes were waiting for hers, met them, held them.
"I am not suggesting that you should defend Rodolphe," he said. "You were not thinking of him. He is not one of the weak."