There was a long silence.
“And this was all?” I asked. For the accusation which had come to me had been far graver than this.
“As I live and must die, that is all. The other things which they testify that he did that night are but the blackness and foulness of their own hearts.”
“I will go speak with him,” I said, moving as to pass on.
Mary Gordon had been seated upon a wall which jutted out over the water. She leaped to her feet in an instant and caught me by the wrist, looking with an eager and passionate regard into my eyes.
“You must not—you shall not!” she cried. “My father is not to be spoken to. He is not himself. He has sworn that he will answer no man, speak to no man, have dealings with no man, till the shame be staunched and his innocency made to appear.”
“But I will bring him to himself,” I said, “I will reason with him, and that most tenderly.”
“Nay,” she said, taking me eagerly by the breast of my coat, “I tell you he will not listen to a word.”
“It is my duty,” I answered.
“Wherefore?” she cried, sharply. “You are not his minister.”