MY LADY OF THE SOUTH
I came to myself confused by my surroundings, but with mind comparatively clear. I was lying on some blankets in one corner of the cellar. Through a small barred window a bit of daylight streamed in, enabling me to perceive something of the desolate interior. My head throbbed from the blow which had felled me, and was bound about with a linen napkin. Otherwise I appeared to be unhurt. I sat up and stared about, recalling to mind the circumstances which had brought me into this situation. Bad as things were previously, I had rendered them infinitely worse by that mad effort at resistance. No doubt my returning to the library was in itself an act of foolishness, less convincing of innocence than I had supposed at the moment, but, whatever virtue it might have contained was now entirely offset by my futile attempt at escape. In the minds of all I was condemned, nor did I have a Single plea to offer. Drops of perspiration beaded my forehead as I thought of those accusing facts pointing so directly toward me. I was held a murderer; the word seemed to burn into my brain as though formed of fire; even Jean Denslow could believe in me no longer—not with all that crushing evidence dragging me down to infamy. Her name lingered on my lips in dread as I bowed my head in my hands; then someway it came back as an inspiration. I sat staring into the darkest corner of the cellar, yet seeing nothing except the vision of that young girl—her slender figure, her bright, earnest face, her light fluffy hair, her gray-blue eyes shining beneath the long lashes. She was my wife, my wife; the law said so, and yet I could scarcely persuade my-
[ 154 ]
