“No, no, dear! How can you speak such cruel words? You know I would do anything for your sake.”
Half-mad with mental agony, Myra repulsed her with a bitter laugh.
“Anything but this,” she cried. “There it is, plain enough. He speaks, and you cry ‘Hearken! is he not wise.’ He says, ‘Let him be given up to justice for the mob to howl at him and say he must die.’ Die? Oh, no, no, no, it is too horrible! He must—he shall be saved!”
In her agony she made a rush for the door, but before she was half-way there, she tottered, and would have fallen but for Guest’s ready arm. He caught her just in time, and bore her to a couch, where she lay back sobbing hysterically for a few moments, but only to master her emotion, draw her cousin to her breast, and kiss her again and again before holding out her hand to Guest.
“Forgive me!” she whispered. “These long months of suffering have made me weak—half-mad. My lips spoke, not my heart. You are both wiser than I am. Help me, and tell me what to do.”
“I will help you, and help him, in every way I can,” said Guest gently, as he held the thin white hand in his. “Now let me talk coolly to you—let us look the matter plainly in the face, and see how matters stand. I am speaking now as the lawyer, not as the friend—yes, as the friend, too; but our feelings must not carry us away.”
Myra struggled with her emotion, and pressed the hand which held hers firmly.
Guest was silent for a few moments and stood as if collecting his thoughts and reviewing his position.
“There is no need for taking any immediate steps,” he said. “The scene that took place to-night was forced on by my precipitancy, and the danger to Stratton has passed away. To-morrow I will see him again, and perhaps he will be more ready to take me into his confidence, for there is a great deal more to learn, I am sure.”
“It is not so bad as you imagined.”