“They say I committed this murder—that I crushed out the life of that miserable old woman. So be it.”
“Father!”
“I say—so be it,” he repeated firmly. “The law says one life must answer for another. Well—I am ready.”
Claire wrung her hands, as he rose from where he had knelt, and gazed at him in pitying wonder and awe.
“God is merciful,” said the old man mournfully. “He readeth all our hearts. Claire, my child, I am not afraid to die. I am sick for the rest that is to come.”
“But, father!” wailed Claire.
“My child, I know. I have thought of all. I have seen everything in the silence and darkness of this cell; but it is only a passing away from this weary life to one that is full of rest and peace. There is no injustice there.”
“Father, you madden me,” whispered Claire hoarsely. “You must not give up like this. Tell me what to do.”
“Think me innocent, my child,” he said softly—“innocent of that crime. And now let us talk of yourself and your brother Morton.”
She noticed that he did not mention May’s name.