Still Jim Otis, with his white face, stood looking at her, and answered not a word. His mother, continually opening her mouth to speak, then shutting it, looked first at one, then at the other, with round, dilated eyes, turning her head and quivering all over her soft bulk, like some great agitated and softly feathered bird.
“Why don't you speak?” demanded Madelon.
“What is it you want me to say?” said Jim Otis, then, hesitatingly.
“Say? Say that you saw my brother Richard give me the knife that I did the deed with.”
Jim Otis stood silent, with his pale, handsome face bent doggedly towards the floor.
“Say so! You saw it!”
Still Jim Otis did not speak, and Madelon pressed close to him, and thrust her agonized face before his. “Have mercy upon me and speak!” she groaned.
“Jim, what does she mean?” asked his mother, in a frightened whisper. “Is she out of her head?”
“No; hush, mother,” replied Jim. Then he turned to the girl. “No,” he said, with stern, defiant eyes upon her face, “I did not see your brother give you the knife.”
“You did! I know you did!”