“Upon my soul—­whose salvation I would have imperiled to save him—­I did my best, although it seemed my worst,” cried Harry.  “That I was weak and credulous and fearful is most true; but indeed, indeed, I was faithful to your son.  My father—­he is dead, madam, and past your judgment” (for the fury in the other’s eyes had blazed up afresh at the mention of him)—­“deceived me with false hopes; for fear alone—­though I was timid too—­would never have caused me to break the promise I had passed to you.  He said, if I disgraced myself and him by the perjury I contemplated, that he would thrust me from his door forever; that in the lips of all the world my name would become another word for shame and infamy; that even the man I loved would loathe me when I had thus served his turn.  I answered him, ‘No matter, so I save my Richard.’  Then he said, ’But you will not save him; you will ruin him, rather, by this very evidence you purpose to give.  We have proof enough of this Yorke’s guilt, no matter what you swear; and we have proof, besides, of his having committed other offenses, if we choose to adduce it.  All you will effect is to make yourself shameful.’  Then I hesitated, not knowing what to think.  ‘The case is this,’ argued my father:  ’I have no grudge against this young scoundrel, since the money has been all recovered, and I don’t want revenge—­else, as I say, I can easily get it.  But I’ll have him taught a lesson; he must be punished for the wrong he has done, but not severely.  Before the judge passes sentence, I, the prosecutor, will beg him off:  such an appeal is always listened to, you know, and I will make it.  But if you dare to speak for him, as I hear you mean to do—­if you, my daughter, call yourself thief and trollop to save his skin, then shall he rot in jail!  He shall, by Heaven!  His fate hangs on my lips, not yours,’”

“Can this be true?” mused the old woman.

“It is true, so help me Heaven!” cried Harry.  “I was a fool, a poor, weak, shuddering fool, but not a traitress.  If you were in court, and saw me look at him—­the smile I gave by which I meant to assure him all was well, however ill it seemed—­You did see it; I see you did.  You do believe me.  Oh, thank Heaven—­thank Heaven!”

She began to sob and cry, and caught hold of the old woman’s hand and kissed it, while the other stood silent, still in doubt.

“Oh, madam, pity me.  That you have suffered torments for long years is plain to see, and yet you have not, though he was your son, been tortured as I have.  You could not have freed him by a word as I could; and oh, I did not utter it!  I seemed to be his judge, his jailer, the cause of all his woes, to the man I loved—­and loved beyond all others!  I hated my own father for his sake.  I”—­she shuddered—­“I was married to Richard’s rival.  You at least have been alone, not companioned night and day by one who helped to doom him.  Your case is hard and bitter—­but mine! not our own Richard, in his chains and toil, has suffered what I have suffered!  Look at me, madam, and tell me if I speak truth or lie.”