“I shall know what words to speak to-morrow,” he said, in a hoarse undertone.
“Will they not be spoken for yourself?” whispered the dismal low voice.
“How? In what manner?”
“You will speak to make a name.”
“Also for the salvation of yours.”
“Mine does not matter; it is not my own.”
“You trust me, do you not?”
“I trust you; yet you drew your hand away so quickly when you knew it was not the warder who was the murderess. Give it to me again.”
There was something so curious in the prisoner’s fragility, something so strange in her cowed air, that it seemed to pervade the advocate with the stealth of a drug. But the emotion of disgust with which he had withdrawn his hand when first he grew conscious that he touched her was no longer present when he offered it again. The second time she clasped her fingers round it so that their pressure seemed to sear his skin. It had the heat of a live coal.
In releasing his hand she let her fingers yield it so imperceptibly that he did not know the precise point at which it had ceased to be held; and he was afraid to make a motion of withdrawal, lest it should be interpreted as a repetition of that which had dealt her a wound. He tried to see her face, but in the darkness there was no lineament to decipher.