“And what have I done?”
“What would have brought you to the gallows if I had not held my tongue. You attempted to murder the old woman to obtain her money, and, in escaping, you received the wound which soon will bring you to your grave.”
“What proofs?”
“Every proof: your stump struck me in the face when you rushed out—the button was off your coat the next morning when I met you—I had every proof, and, had I chosen, would have sworn on the Bible to your having been the party.”
“Well, I’ll not deny it—why should I, when I cannot be taken out of this bed to be tried, even if you wished? Have you more to say?”
“Yes, more.”
“I doubt it.”
“Then hear me. The poor woman whom you would have murdered, whom I found at her last gasp, and with difficulty restored to consciousness, that poor woman, Spicer, is your own mother!”
“God of Heaven!” exclaimed he, covering his face.
“Yes, Spicer, your fond indulgent mother, who thinks that you suffered the penalty of the law many years ago, and whose energies have been crushed by the supposed unhappy fate of her still loved and lamented son. Spicer, this is all true, and have you now nothing to repent of?”