“They don’t believe it,” muttered Denville. “No; they would not. It does not alter the situation in the least. I shall suffer, and he will be set free.”
“You shall not suffer, father,” cried Morton impetuously. “Surely there is justice to be had in England. No, I will not have you give way in this weak, imbecile manner. There: no more now; I must go, and I shall consult with your friends.”
“No; I forbid it,” cried the old man sternly. “You will not be disobedient to me now that I am helpless, Morton, my son. You cannot see it all as I see it.”
“No, father; I hope I see it more clearly.”
“Rash boy! you are blind, while it is my eyes that are opened. Morton, one of us must die for this crime. I tell you I could not live, knowing that I did so at the expense of your brother who had gone, young in years and unrepentant, to his account.”
“Unrepentant, father?”
“Hush, hush, my boy! No more. I can bear no more.”
“Time, sir,” said the voice of the gaoler, and Morton went sadly back to join his sisters.