The convict did not answer at first. Then he said in a low tone:
"No law can re-establish me."
The judge added:
"Bethink you, if you are Paul Ritson, and an innocent man, the law can restore you to your young wife."
Visibly moved by this reference, the convict's eyes wandered to where Greta sat beside him, and the tension of his gaze relaxed.
The judge began again:
"You have been recognized by two witnesses—one claiming to be your brother, the other to be your wife—as Paul Ritson. Are you that person?"
The convict's face showed the agony he suffered. In a vague, uncertain, puzzled way he was thinking of the consequences of his answer. If he said he was Paul Ritson, it seemed to him that it must leak out that he was not the eldest legitimate son of his father. Then all the fabric of his mother's honor would there and then tumble to the ground. He recalled his oath; could he pronounce six words and not violate it? No, not six syllables. How those mouthing gossips would glory to see a good name trailed in the dust!
"Are you Paul Ritson, the eldest son and heir of Allan Ritson?"
The convict looked again at Greta. She rose to her feet beside him. All her soul was in her face, and cried: