The old man fumbled with a waistcoat button. His eyes blinked hard.

"You don't see," he continued, "the one thing that's plain to my eyes,
and it's this--that your only chance of escape is to tell the truth about
the quarrel. If the truth were told, whatever it is, I believe it would
be to your credit--I'll say that for you. If it was to your credit,
even if they believe you guilty of killing Erris Boyne, they'd touch you
lightly. Ah, in the name of the mother you loved, I ask you to tell the
truth about that quarrel! Give it into the hands of the jury, and let
them decide. Haven't you got a heart in you? In the name of God--"

"Don't speak to me like that," interrupted Dyck, with emotion. "I've
thought of all those things. I hold my peace because--because I hold my
peace. To speak would be to hurt some one I love with all my soul."

"And you won't speak to save me--your father--because you don't love me
with all your soul! Is that it?" asked Miles Calhoun.

"It's different--it's different."

"Ah, it's a woman!"

"Never mind what it is. I will not tell. There are things more shameful
than death."

"Yes," snarled the other. "Rather than save yourself, you bring
dishonour upon him who gave you birth."

Dyck's face was submerged in colour.