Why did all present suddenly shrink back as if a leper stood among them? The dead priest lay rigid as ever, the folded hands had not stirred, the inscrutable smile had not wavered on the lips or given any hint of its meaning. Surely there was no accusation in those still eyelids. Neville himself looked round in some bewilderment, till he caught his sister's murmur of horror,-- "Kit! oh, Kit!--YOUR HAND!" Yes, as he turned it he saw for himself, a drop or two of blood trickling from a tiny wound in the palm, made by a rough place on the crucifix as he drew his hand from the corpse. A scratch so slight that it yielded no sensation to one in his tense, nervous state. "Ay," he said coolly, but bitterly enough, "that ends it, I reckon. Such testimony as that closes the case against me; yet, before God--" "Hush! no more blasphemy!" It was Giles Brent's voice that spoke, and all echo of friendliness was gone out of it. "Guards, remove your prisoner to the tobacco-house and keep him close. Gentlemen, the inquest is ended." CHAPTER XI THE GREATER LOVE The guards turned, one holding Neville by the wrist, the other marching behind, and thus he walked down the hall between the rows of unfriendly faces. As he passed Elinor she looked up timidly, but met a glance of freezing contempt. So she read the language of his eyes, and he knew not that they spoke any such thing. Instead he had but a vague consciousness that among the dull ranks of meaningless faces his eyes suddenly fell upon a glory, a brilliancy of sunny tresses straying over cheeks of a luminous pallor. That was Elinor Calvert. Oh, yes! he knew that very well. Who else had that bearing, with its strange blending of a dignity too unconscious to be majestic, with a simplicity too dignified to be wholly simple? And those purple eyes, why were they so sad? Ah, because he was guilty. He had forgotten that; but Giles Brent had said so, and all these hostile faces confirmed the verdict. At any rate, since she thought so, it mattered little whether the verdict were true or false. Suddenly there came to him a vision of a new circle in the Inferno, a circle where one forever questioned the eyes he loved and dared not read the answer written therein. "My son, harden not thine heart; but rather submit thyself in penitence and humility to the sentence of justice." It was Father White who spoke. The words brought Neville back to the present with a shock. He shook off the kind priest's hand rudely. "Judgment, not justice!" he answered, with haughtiness, and moved on with a smile on his face. Pride is the fox that the Spartan carries under his cloak, smiling while it eats his heart. Father White drew back, but so full was Neville's mind that he noted not the movement, nor indeed aught else, till he was aware of a yellow head at his elbow and a pair of short legs striding to keep the pace with his own long ones.