So, delay as he would and evade as he would, the truth had finally to be told, the whole unqualified truth; he had given up this case that he had thought so important, he had abandoned a fight that he had called the greatest of his life.

“Why have you done it, my boy?” the old lady asked him gently, her searching eyes fixed gravely on him.  “Tell me—­tell me everything.”

And he did as she bade him, just as he used to when he was little; he told her all that had happened from the crime to the capture, then of the assassin’s release and his own baffling failure at the very moment of success.

His mother listened with absorbed interest, she thrilled, she radiated, she sympathized; and she shivered at the thought of such power for evil.

When he had finished, she lay silent, thinking it all over, not wishing to speak hastily, while Paul stroked her white hand.

“And the young man?” she asked presently.  “The one who is innocent?  What about him?”

“He is in prison, he will be tried.”

“And then?  They have evidence against him, you said so—­the footprints, the pistol, perhaps more that this man can manufacture.  Paul, he will be found guilty?”

“I—­I don’t know.”

“But you think so?”

“It’s possible, mother, but—­I’ve done all I can.”

“He will be found guilty,” she repeated, “this innocent young man will be found guilty.  You know it, and—­you give up the case.”

“That’s unfair.  I give up the case because your life is more precious to me than the lives of fifty young men.”

The old lady paused a moment, holding his firm hand in her two slender ones, then she said sweetly, yet in half reproach:  “My son, do you think your life is less precious to me than mine is to you?”

“Why—­why, no,” he said.

“It isn’t, but we can’t shirk our burdens, Paul.”  She pointed simply to the picture of a keen-eyed soldier over the fireplace, a brave, lovable face.  “If we are men we do our work; if we are women, we bear what comes.  That is how your father felt when he left me to—­to—­you understand, my boy?”

“Yes, mother.”

“I want you to decide in that spirit.  If it’s right to drop this case, I shall be glad, but I don’t want you to drop it because you are afraid—­for me, or—­for anything.”

“But mother——­”

“Listen, Paul; I know how you love me, but you mustn’t put me first in this matter, you must put your honor first, and the honor of your father’s name.”

“I’ve decided the thing”—­he frowned—­“it’s all settled.  I have sent word by Tignol to the Brazilian embassy that I will accept that position in Rio Janeiro.  It’s still open, and—­mother,” he went on eagerly, “I’m going to take you with me.”

Her face brightened under its beautiful crown of silver-white hair, but she shook her head.

“I couldn’t go, Paul; I could never bear that long sea journey, and I should be unhappy away from these dear old mountains.  If you go, you must go alone.  I don’t say you mustn’t go, I only ask you to think, to think.”