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She shook her head slowly.  “It’s a bad case, and the thing is to convince them—­”


“But remember, Gregory,” she said, gently, “I am not to judge you.  Unhappily, it rests with the men of this miners’ meeting, and the problem is:  how are they to be convinced of your innocence?  The two main points are against you,—­Bella’s dying words and the blood on your sleeve.”

“The place was areek with blood,” St. Vincent cried passionately, springing to his feet.  “I tell you it was areek!  How could I avoid floundering in it, fighting as I was for life?  Can you not take my word—­”

“There, there, Gregory.  Sit down.  You are truly beside yourself.  If your case rested with me, you know you would go free and clean.  But these men,—­you know what mob rule is,—­how are we to persuade them to let you go?  Don’t you see?  You have no witnesses.  A dying woman’s words are more sacred than a living man’s.  Can you show cause for the woman to die with a lie on her lips?  Had she any reason to hate you?  Had you done her or her husband an injury?”

He shook his head.


The correspondent sank down despondently, with a collapsing of the chest and a drooping forward of the shoulders.  “Then am I indeed lost.”

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