* * * * *
A flush—a deep angry flush reddened the face of Lady Helena Powyss, as she finished this cool epistle. She crushed it in her hand as though it were a viper.
"The coward! the dastard! And it is for the heartless writer of this insolent letter that you suffer all this. Inez Catheron. I command you—speak out. Tell what you know. Let the guilty wretch you call brother, suffer for his own crime."
Inez looked at her, with something of the stern, haughty glance she had cast upon the rabble of the court room.
"Enough, Lady Helena! You don't know what you are talking about. I have told you before; all I had to say I said at the inquest. It is of no use our talking about it. Come what may, I will never say one word more."
And looking at her stern, resolute face, Lady Helena knew she never would. She tore the letter she held into minutest morsels, and tied them up in her handkerchief.
"I'll burn them when I get home, and I never want to hear his name again. For you," lowering her voice, "we must save you in spite of yourself. You shall never stand your trial at the assizes."
Miss Catheron looked wistfully at the heavily bolted and barred window.
"I should like to be saved," she said, wearily, "at any other price than that of speaking. Once I thought I would die sooner than stoop to run away—a fortnight's imprisonment changes all that. Save me if you can, Aunt Helena—it will kill me to face that horrible mob again."
Her voice died out in a choking sob. She was thoroughly brave, but she shuddered with sick fear and loathing, from head to foot, as she recalled the dark, vindictive faces, the merciless eyes that had confronted her yesterday on every side.