If I could then and there have made full confession, and gone out of that room an arrested prisoner, it would have been, so far as regarded myself, a relief unutterable, a mercy beyond all mercies. But I had to remember your father. The governor laid down his pen. "This looks, to say the least, rather strange." "Doctor," cried one of the board, "you must be mad to hold your tongue and let your character go to the dogs in this way." Alas, I was not mad; I saw all that was vanishing from me--inevitably, irredeemably--my good name, my chance of earning a livelihood, my sweet hope of a home and a wife. And I might save everything, and keep my promise to your father also, by just one little lie! Would you have had me utter it? No, love; I know you would rather have had me die. The sensation was like dying, for one minute, and then it passed away. I looked steadily at my accusers; for accusation, at all events strong suspicion, was in every countenance now; and told them that though I had not perpetrated a single one of the atrocious crimes laid to my charge, still the events of my life had been peculiar; and circumstances left me no option but the course I had hitherto pursued, namely, total silence. That if my good character were strong enough to sustain me through it, I would willingly retain my post at the gaol, and weather the storm as I best could. If this course were impossible-- "It is impossible," said the governor, decisively. "Then I have no alternative but to tender my resignation." It was accepted at once. I went out from the board-room a disgraced man, with a stain upon my character which will last for life, and follow me wherever I plant my foot. The honest Urquhart name, which my father bore, and Dallas--which I ought to have given stainless to my wife, and left--if I could leave nothing else--to my children--ay, it was gone. Gone, for ever and ever. I stole up into my own rooms, and laid myself down on my bed, as motionless as if it had been my coffin. Fear not, my love; one sin was saved me, perhaps by your letter of that morning. The wretchedest, most hopeless, most guilty of men would never dare to pray for death so long as he knew that a good woman loved him. When daylight failed, I bestirred myself, lit my lamp, and began to make a few preparations and arrangements about my rooms--it being clear that, wherever I went, I must quit this place as soon as possible.