“I am proud of you, my boy,” he said; “proud of you.” That was bravely said. It is easy enough to be proud of a son who wins his way in the world and gets honor and fame. It is finer, perhaps, to be proud of the son who carries himself well in the hour of black shame and peril; who can bear himself well even though the next day may send him to the electric chair. What was he proud of, the old fighting man? Of the good blood, perhaps, that flows the steadier the greater the danger is. * * * * * For fifteen fateful minutes Molineux was on the stand this morning. Assistant District-Attorney Osborne had spent the greater part of the night preparing for his promised attack. He had assured the court that he would occupy two hours in probing the pallid little man who stands charged with murder. He promised a sensation. “Osborne has something up his sleeve,” said the lawyers. The spectators buzzed it among themselves. “Osborne has something up his sleeve!” And so he had; but it was only his arm. The expected did not happen. The sensation did not materialize. And yet Molineux could not foretell this when he took his seat in the witness chair and clasped his nervous hands upon his knee. He was cold and white and firm; watchful, too, for Osborne faced him with an air of savage concentration. It was the crisis of the trial. It was the crucial moment. It was the crossroads, whence one path led to freedom and the other ran darkly away to shame and death. Molineux knew it. Osborne knew it. They eyed each other like men who are to meet in the death struggle. The Assistant District Attorney was evidently nervous. He moistened his lips with ice water and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Then he threw one leg across the table in his free and easy way and leaned forward. Having failed by direct questions to tangle the little prisoner in the net, he attacked him indirectly—and not very chivalrously—by dragging in the name of that unhappy woman who is now Molineux’s wife. Of course, from the viewpoint of a prosecuting officer, all is fair in law. It is fair to help a witness, fair to throw mud at a woman—even though she is outside the case and aloof—but it is not always wise. In a low voice he began questioning the prisoner. “Did Barnet pay any attention to your wife?” he asked. Molineux’s face hardened. He brought his jaws together; a glimmer like that of steel leaped into his misty eyes; but that was all. He answered the question quietly enough, but it was evident that the introduction of his wife’s name touched him on the raw. All that was chivalrous in him came to the surface. And in spite of the fact that he was rusted in prison for four years, there is still a deal of chivalry in him.