“Do not, do not be too hard on her!” Sutton cried, his face flushing hotly. “Captain Clyne, I beg—I beg you to be merciful.”
“It is she who is hard on herself! But have no fear,” Clyne continued, in a voice cold as the winter fells and as pitiless. “I shall give her fifteen minutes to come to her senses and behave herself—not as a decent woman, I no longer ask that, but as a woman, any woman, the lowest, would behave herself, to save a child’s life. And if she behaves herself—well. And if not, sir, it is not I who will punish her, but the law!”
“She will speak,” the chaplain said. “I think she will speak—for you.”
He was deeply and honestly concerned for the girl: and full of pity for her, though he did not understand her.
“But—suppose I saw her first?” he suggested. “Just for a few minutes? I could explain.”
“Nothing that I cannot,” Captain Clyne answered grimly. “And for a few minutes! Do you not consider,” with a look of suspicion, “that there has been delay enough already? And too much! Fifteen minutes,” with a recurrence of the bitter laugh, “she shall have, and not one minute more, if she were my sister!”
Mr. Sutton’s face turned red again.
“Remember, sir,” he said bravely, “that she was going to be your wife.”
“I do remember it!” Clyne retorted with a withering glance. “And thank God for His mercy.”