"Oh yes, there is," answered Morrison; "you know there is, Tyrrell. You must either say where you were during the whole time you were absent from the mansion. You must account for the blood upon your hands and clothes. You must tell the whole story in short."
"And what will be the consequence if I do?" demanded Charles Tyrrell. "You seem to know more, Morrison, than you say; if I do, tell me, what will be the consequences."
Everard Morrison looked steadfastly in his face, and clasped his hands tight together.
"Why do you ask me?" he said, "why do you ask me? But as you do ask me, I must tell you. You will save your own life. You will do much, though not all, to clear your own name. But you will doom two others to the gibbet."
"Then God be my friend," said Charles Tyrrell, "for I will not do it!"
Everard Morrison cast himself upon hid bosom, and wept like a child.
"Noble, generous creature!" he cried, "but still, Charles, still think what you are doing. I am commissioned to tell you, that you are at liberty to do as you please; that nothing shall be denied; that nothing shall be concealed that you may choose to reveal."
"No, no, Morrison," cried Charles Tyrrell, putting him back from him with his hand, "Morrison, do not tempt me! No, I would rather die an honest man, than live a scoundrel! though such a death is terrible, indeed."
"But you have not heard the alternative," replied Morrison.
"Is there any other but death?" demanded Charles Tyrrell.