For a trying moment that afternoon he had forgotten, almost, that he was a gentleman, and under a gentleman’s obligation. There had been so much uncertainty, and fear, and so many clouded days. But a man had no excuse, he contended in his new strength, even under the direst pressure, to lose sight of the fact that he was a gentleman. Morgan had done that. Morgan had not come. But perhaps Morgan was not a gentleman at all. That would account for a great deal, everything, in fact.
There would be a way out without Morgan now. Since Alice understood, there would be shown a way. He should not perish on account of Morgan, and even though he never came it would not matter greatly, now that Alice understood.
He was serene, peaceful, and unworried, as he had not been for one moment since the inquest. The point of daylight had come again into his dark perspective; it was growing and gleaming with the promise and cheer of a star.
Colonel Price had no word of censure for his daughter as 301 they held their way homeward, and no word of comment on her extraordinary and immodest–according to the colonel’s view–conduct fell from his lips until they were free from the crowd. Then the colonel:
“Well, Alice?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Why did you do it–why didn’t you let him tell it, child? They’ll hang him now, I tell you, they’ll hang that boy as sure as sundown! And he’s no more guilty of that old man’s death than I am.”
“No, he isn’t,” said she.
“Then why didn’t you let him talk, Alice? What do you know?”
“I don’t know anything–anything that would be evidence,” she replied. “But he’s been a man all through this cruel trial, and I’d rather see him die a man than live a coward!”