She had no time to lose. She must see him. Bareheaded she rushed into the street and fought her way to his side. His hands were manacled but his fair head was held erect until he saw the white face of his bride. And then his eyes fell.
Would she, too, turn and curse him?
He asked himself the hideous question once and dared not lift his head. He felt her coming nearer. The guard halted. His eyes were blurred. He could see nothing.
He only felt two soft arms slip round his neck. His own moved instinctively to clasp her but the manacles held them. She kissed his lips before the staring crowd and murmured inarticulate sounds of love and tenderness. She smoothed his blond hair back from his forehead and crooned over him as a mother over a babe.
"My little wife—my poor little girlie—my baby!" he murmured. "Forgive me—I tried to save you from this. But I couldn't. Love would have it so. Now you can forget me!"
The arms tightened about his neck, and gave the answer lips could not frame.
When his trial came she moved to Charlestown to sit by his side in the prison dock, touch his manacled hands and look into his eyes.
The trial moved to its certain end with remorseless certainty. Cook's sister, the wife of Governor Willard, sat beside her doomed brother, and cheered the desolate heart of the girl he had married. Governor Willard gave the full weight of his position and his sterling manhood to his wife in her grief.
He had employed the best lawyer in his state to defend Cook—Daniel W. Vorhees, whose eloquence had given him the title of "The Tall Sycamore of the Wabash."
When the great advocate rose, his towering figure commanded a painful silence in the crowded court room. The people, who packed every inch of its space, hated the man who had lived among them for more than a year as a spy. But he had a wife, he had a sister. And in this solemn hour he should have his day in court. The crowd listened to Vorhees' speech with rapt attention.