She waited with feverish impatience for the coming of the Bishop to tell her the result of the trial, and at length he came.
"What have they done with him?" she cried; and he told her.
"What defence did he make?" she asked.
"None," said the Bishop.
"What did he say?" she asked again.
"Not a word but 'No,'" said the Bishop.
Then she drew a long breath of immense relief, and at the next instant she reproached herself. How little of soul she had been! And how great of heart had been Jason! He could have wrecked her life with a word, but he had held his peace. She had sent him to prison, and rather than smite he had suffered himself to be smitten. She felt herself small and mean.
And the Bishop, having, as he thought, banished Greeba's terror, hobbled to the door, for now the hour was very late, and the snow was still falling.
"The poor soul will do your good husband no mischief now. Poor lad! poor lad! After all, he is more fit for a madhouse than for a prison. Good-night, my child, good-night."
And so the good old man went his way.