"Bart Toyner," she said, "I'm all alone in this world; there's not a
soul to help me. Every one's against me and against him. Don't turn
against me; I need your help--oh, I need it! I never professed to care
about you; but if your father was in danger of dying an awful death and
you came to me for help, I wouldn't refuse you, you know I wouldn't."

He only spoke now with the wish to conceal from her the panic within;
for with the overwhelming desire to yield to her had come a ghastly fear
that he was going to yield, and faith and hope fled from him. He saw
himself standing there face to face with his idea of God, and this
temptation between him and God. The temptation grew in magnitude, and
God withdrew His face.

"I know, Ann, it sounds hard about your father" (mechanically); "but you
must try and think how it would be if he was lying wounded like Walker
and some other man had done it. Wouldn't you think the law was in the
right then?"

"No!" (quickly). "If father'd got a simple wound, and could be nursed
and taken care of comfortably until he died, I wouldn't want any man to
be hanged for it. It's an awful, awful thing to be hanged."

She waited a moment, and he did not speak. The lesser light of night is
fraught with illusions. She thought that she saw him there quite plainly
standing quiet and indifferent. She was so accustomed to his
appearance--the carefulness of his dress, the grave eyes, and the thin,
drooping moustache--that her mind by habit filled in these details which
she did not in reality see; nor did she see the look of agonised prayer
that came and went across the habitual reserve of his face.