Coppinger looked at her with his boring, dark eyes intently, and said: “What is the meaning of this?”
“It is poisoned.”
Judith was breathless. She drew back relieved at having cast away the fatal mess.
Coppinger rose to his feet, and glared at her across the table, leaning with his knuckles on the board. He did not speak for a moment, his face became livid, and his hands resting on the table shook as though he were shivering in an ague.
“There is arsenic in the porridge,” gasped Judith.
She had not time to weigh what she should say, how explain her conduct; but one thought had held her—to save Coppinger’s life while there was yet time.
The Captain’s dog that had been lying at his master’s feet rose, went to the spilt porridge, and began to lap the milk and devour the paste. Neither Judith nor Coppinger regarded him.
“It was an accident,” faltered Judith.
“You lie,” said Coppinger, in thrilling tones, “you lie, you murderess! You sought to kill me.”
Judith did not answer for a moment. She also was trembling. She had to resolve what course to pursue. She could not, she would not, betray her brother, and subject him to the worst brutality of treatment from the infuriated man whose life he had sought.