"I am not afraid," she said, "and can excuse your harsh words; but—"
"I will have no buts," he said sternly, "you have slandered my wife, her I love more than my life; you shall either say you have lied falsely, or you shall make good your words."
"Shall I begin at the beginning? Do you want to know all?"
"Begin, and make an end quickly."
And she did begin, even from the time when Amy had fainted, that memorable night, unto where Charles Linchmore had told her he had met Amy on her wedding day; and as she went on he buried his face in his hands, while his whole frame shook and trembled like an aspen.
"Girl, have some mercy!" he cried.
But she had none; no pity. Was not this woman his wife; and had she shown pity. So she never stayed her words, never softened them, she gave him what appeared the hard, stern, agonising truth, and he groaned with very anguish as she spoke.
"Is that all?" he asked at last.
"All."
"And you will swear it. Swear it!" he cried hoarsely.