The convict's face showed the agony he suffered. In a vague, uncertain, puzzled way he was thinking of the consequences of his answer. If he said he was Paul Ritson, it seemed to him that it must leak out that he was not the eldest legitimate son of his father. Then all the fabric of his mother's honor would there and then tumble to the ground. He recalled his oath; could he pronounce six words and not violate it? No, not six syllables. How those mouthing gossips would glory to see a good name trailed in the dust! "Are you Paul Ritson, the eldest son and heir of Allan Ritson?" The convict looked again at Greta. She rose to her feet beside him. All her soul was in her face, and cried: "Answer, answer!" "I can not answer," said the convict, in a loud, piercing voice. At that terrible moment his strength seemed to leave him. He sunk backward into the chair from which Greta had risen. She stood over him and put her hand tenderly on his head. "Tell them it is true," she pleaded, "tell them you are my husband; tell them so; oh, tell them, tell them!" she cried in a tone of piteous supplication. He raised to hers his weary eyes with a dumb cry for mercy from the appeal of love. Only Hugh Ritson, of all who were there present, understood what was in the convict's heart. "Paul Ritson is the rightful heir of his father and his mother's legitimate son," he muttered audibly. The convict turned to where his brother sat, and looked at him with a face that seemed to grapple for the missing links of a chain of facts. Counsel for the defense arose. "It will be seen that the unhappy convict witness will not be used as an instrument of deception," he said. "He is Paul Drayton, and can not be made to pretend that he is Paul Ritson." The hush of awe in the court was broken by the opening of a door behind the bench. Two women stood on the threshold. One of them was small, wrinkled, and old. She was Mrs. Drayton. The other was a nun in hood and cape. She was Sister Grace. Hugh Ritson leaned toward counsel for the plaintiff, who promptly rose and said: "The witness I spoke of as dead to the world is now present in the court." Amid a buzz of conversation the nun was handed to the table. She raised her long veil and showed a calm, pale face. After the usual formalities, counsel addressed her. "Mrs. Ritson," he said, "tell us which of the two men who sit opposite is your son." Sister Grace answered in a clear, soft voice: "Both are my sons. The convict is Paul Ritson, my son by Allan Ritson; the other is Paul Lowther, my son by an unhappy alliance with Robert Lowther." Drayton jumped to his feet. "There, that's enough of this!" he shouted, excitedly. "Damme, if I can stand any more of it!" Bonnithorne reached over and whispered: "Mad man, what are you doing? Hold your tongue!" "It's all up. There's the old woman, too, come to give me away. Here, I say, I'm Paul Drayton; that's what I am, if you want to know."