Another silence.
"I don't know. I never was worth much," he gasped out at last, stooping, and pulling at his shoestrings.
"And now"—said Soulé.
"There's no need for you to say that!" with a sharp cry. "I don't forget that I have slipped,—that it's too late,—I don't forget."
His hands jerked at his coat-fronts in a wild, dazed way.
"Stephen!"
The woman rose, and let in the air.
"I thank you. I'm not sick."
Soulé turned away. He could not meet the look on the pinched convict-face,—the soul of the man crying out for God or his brother, something to help. There was a silence for a few moments.
"You will come with me, Stephen," quietly: then, after a pause, "It is for life. There is but little time left to decide."