"Is it because of that—that charge he made?"
He arose to his feet in brave attempt at self-control.
"Oh, no, certainly not! I think that was merely a threat, a cowardly threat, utterly without provocation, without purpose, unless he sought in that way to work you a serious injury. The real charge against me is murder. It appears that the man I fought with in the mine later died from his injuries."
She turned both face and body toward him, her eyes filled with agony.
"The man died? Will it be possible for you to prove yourself innocent?"
"It may be possible, but it does not appear easy. I hope to show that all I did was in self-defence. I did not strike the man a deadly blow; in the struggle he fell and was injured on the sharp rocks. In every sense his death was unintentional, yet there is nothing to sustain me but my own testimony. But I shall not flee from the issue. If I have taken human life I will abide the judgment. God knows I never dreamed of killing the man; never once supposed him seriously injured. You, at least, believe this?"
"I believe all you tell me."
The man's grasp on the casing of the window tightened, his eyes upon the mass of black hair.
"Strangely enough," he continued, "this whole affair has gone wrong from the start; nothing has turned out in the natural way. Criminals have been made into officers of the law, and honest men changed into outlaws. Now it seems impossible to conjecture how the adventure will terminate."
She sat looking up at him, scarcely seeing his face, her hands clasped in her lap.