"Answer, answer!"
"I can not answer," said the convict, in a loud, piercing voice.
At that terrible moment his strength seemed to leave him. He sunk backward into the chair from which Greta had risen.
She stood over him and put her hand tenderly on his head.
"Tell them it is true," she pleaded, "tell them you are my husband; tell them so; oh, tell them, tell them!" she cried in a tone of piteous supplication.
He raised to hers his weary eyes with a dumb cry for mercy from the appeal of love.
Only Hugh Ritson, of all who were there present, understood what was in the convict's heart.
"Paul Ritson is the rightful heir of his father and his mother's legitimate son," he muttered audibly.
The convict turned to where his brother sat, and looked at him with a face that seemed to grapple for the missing links of a chain of facts.
Counsel for the defense arose.