Ruth slept brokenly, waking from bad dreams to a realization of the dreary truth. One of the dreams was that they were taking Rowan out to hang him and he refused to say good-bye to her.
When she came to breakfast at the hotel it was with no appetite. Tim insisted on her eating, but the toast she munched at stuck in her throat.
“You drink your coffee, anyhow, honey. You’ll feel better,” he urged.
The limbs of the girl trembled as she followed the jailer. The pulse in her throat was beating fast.
At sight of her standing in the shadow of his cell, Rowan drew a deep, ragged breath. The tired eyes in the oval of her pale face held the weariness of woe. Always the clear-cut, delicate face of his sweetheart had touched him nearly, but now it seemed to have the poignant, short-lived charm of a flower. The youth in her was quenched. He had ruined her life.
His impulse was to sweep her into his arms and comfort her, but he lacked the courage of his desire. Every fibre of him was hungry for her, but he looked at her impassively without speaking. The tragic gravity of her told him that she had come as a judge and not as a lover.
When the guard had gone she asked her question: “You didn’t do it, did you?”
His throat ached with tightness. There was nothing he could say to comfort her. He could not even, on account of the others, tell her the truth and let her decide for herself the extent of his guilt.
“Tell me you didn’t do it!” she demanded.