"What is there to tell?" replied the woman. "You deserted me, and Paul was born--born in a workhouse, reared in a workhouse, educated in a workhouse. He was called a 'workhouse brat' by the people. He lived on the rates for years--your son! And I have only to speak and all the world will know of it. Have you nothing to say for yourself?" And she turned to him just as a caged lioness might turn to a keeper with whom it was angry. He stood with bowed head and never answered her a word. He seemed to have forgotten everything in the thought that Paul Stepaside was his son and he was accused of murder, and that he, his father, was his judge. "Have you nothing to say for yourself?" continued the woman. "Oh, it'll be a beautiful story to tell to the world! I've been hearing many things about you through the day. I'm told you speak at great religious meetings, that you're a prominent religious leader, that you advocate sending the Gospel to the heathen, that you're very particular about attending to all religious observances. I've been reading what you said about Paul being an atheist. You declared that men who had given up faith in God were not to be trusted. When I tell my story, won't the world laugh!" He made no answer. He still stood perfectly motionless, with bowed head. The woman's words did not seem to reach him. "You know my Paul's story," she went on. "Therefore, I needn't repeat it. He came to Brunford, and was falsely accused in this very city, and you--because you were well paid and because I think your conscience smote you and you felt an instinctive hatred towards him--you did your best to get him a heavy punishment. Through you he was sent to Strangeways Gaol for six months, he an innocent man! Then you fought him at the election. You told all sorts of lies about him, and you besmirched my name; he your son, and I your wife, the woman you promised to love and cherish, and then deserted. Do you understand? Do you understand?" "Yes, I understand," he said; but still it did not seem like Judge Bolitho's voice at all. "But mind," and here her voice rose somewhat. "But mind, I'm your wife. You married me. I'm your true lawful wife. You don't deny that?" "Jean," he said, "you don't know; you cannot know. But you'll forgive me, won't you? I do not know myself, that is---- No, of course I can't expect you to forgive me." "Forgive you?" said the woman, and there was a world of scorn in her tones. "Forgive you, when I've suffered twenty-five years of disgrace because of you! Forgive you, when my son has been lying in gaol because of you! Forgive you, when, but for you, he might be free now! But there's a God in the heaven." "And Paul Stepaside is my son, my son!"