“Valentine, calm yourself.”
“Wait, you shall believe me.”
And joining her hands, the aged woman on her bed of pain called aloud to her God for help. In her pale and emaciated face, through which the pulse of life moved so feebly, her eyes flashed with an ardent flame.
“Valentine,” he said softly.
She turned toward him as if transfigured.
“Now,” she said, “now speak. I can bear all. Is he dead?”
“Oh, no!”
Her heart had given the same cry as his. Conquered by this faith that animated her, he confided to her the terrible accusation that had attainted their flesh and blood. She thrust it from her indignantly.
“It’s not true. Our son is not a thief.”
“No, but for every one else he is.”