"Because I had wounded other hearts than his, and, moreover, I had offended against Mistress Brent's hospitality."
Mary Brent's lips drew themselves into a tight, straight line.
"Now, Sir Christopher, will you tell the court something we are most urgent to know,—did you, or did you not, return from that search agitated and distraught in bearing, with garments torn and stained with blood?"
"I did."
There was an ominous pause, during which one could well nigh count heart-beats.
"Christopher Neville, do you know this knife?"
"Yea; 'tis mine own."
"Ay, and found in the folds of the priest's garments, and fitting with fatal exactness the wound in the breast. Now, one more question: when you came in that night did you, or did you not, crave blessing and absolution from Father White?"
"No—not absolution!"
"A mere quibble! You confessed to him that you had sinned, and you begged his blessing. Not one of these points do you deny; and, indeed, denial were worse than useless, for, as you well know, I have witnesses enough at hand to prove them all. The explanations in your written statement, which lies before me and which I have examined, your silly tales of the wild animal, the brush and briar, do credit neither to your mind nor your conscience. Rather I beg of you while there is yet time make a clean breast of it here before God, before me, and before this assembled household of St. Gabriel's." Here Brent's voice took a tone almost of pleading, strangely at variance with his magisterial manner at the beginning.