"He was a Catholic," explained the drawn-faced Oliver. "He must have come ready, for his repeater was found loaded. Well, there was no chance for a priest this time."
Mabel nodded slowly: she had read of the man's fate on the placards.
"He was killed—trampled and strangled instantly," said Oliver. "I did what I could: you saw me. But—well, I dare say it was more merciful."
"But you did what you could, my dear?" said the old lady, anxiously, from her corner.
"I called out to them, mother, but they wouldn't hear me."
Mabel leaned forward
"Oliver, I know this sounds stupid of me; but—but I wish they had not killed him."
Oliver smiled at her. He knew this tender trait in her.
"It would have been more perfect if they had not," she said. Then she broke off and sat back.
"Why did he shoot just then?" she asked.
Oliver turned his eyes for an instant towards his mother, but she was knitting tranquilly.
Then he answered with a curious deliberateness.
"I said that Braithwaite had done more for the world by one speech than Jesus and all His saints put together." He was aware that the knitting-needles stopped for a second; then they went on again as before.
"But he must have meant to do it anyhow," continued Oliver.
"How do they know he was a Catholic?" asked the girl again.
"There was a rosary on him; and then he just had time to call on his God."
