“You knew he was.”
“Why did he not tell me, when I begged him so?” she said, and the soft unyielding in her tone was absolute.
“Dorothy!”
“I am so afraid—you don't know,” she whispered, piteously.
“But—you know Burr was cleared.”
“Yes, I know, but even now he will not tell me on the Bible, as I asked him, that he is innocent.”
“Dorothy, he is innocent,” Eugene said, with solemn and bitter emphasis of which she knew not the full meaning.
“Then why does he not swear that he is, to me?” Back went Dorothy always, in all reasoning, to the starting-point in her own mind.
“I tell you he is, child. It has been proven so.”
“Then why—” Dorothy began, but Eugene interrupted her in her circle. “There is no more cause for you to fear him than me,” he said almost harshly, in his stern resolve to be just. Then Dorothy turned on him with sudden passion. “I am afraid,” she cried out, “I shall always be afraid; even if he were to swear to me now that he is innocent, I shall always be afraid, for I coupled him with that awful deed once in my thoughts, and I cannot separate him from it forever. He will always hold the knife in his hand; even if it were not for you, I should be near mad with fear. I bid black Phyllis stay by the door when he comes.”