"One moment, gentlemen." Frona advanced up the lane, which closed
behind her.
St. Vincent sprang to his feet and stretched out his arms to her.
"Frona," he cried, "oh, Frona, I am innocent!"
It struck her like a blow, the unexpectedness of it, and for the
instant, in the sickly light, she was conscious only of the ring of
white faces, each face set with eyes that burned. Innocent of what?
she thought, and as she looked at St. Vincent, arms still extended, she
was aware, in a vague, troubled way, of something distasteful.
Innocent of what? He might have had more reserve. He might have
waited till he was charged. She did not know that he was charged with
anything.
"Friend of the prisoner," the man with the mallet said authoritatively.
"Bring a stool for'ard, some of you."
"One moment . . ." She staggered against the table and rested a hand
on it. "I do not understand. This is all new . . ." But her eyes
happened to come to rest on her feet, wrapped in dirty rags, and she
knew that she was clad in a short and tattered skirt, that her arm
peeped forth through a rent in her sleeve, and that her hair was down
and flying. Her cheek and neck on one side seemed coated with some
curious substance. She brushed it with her hand, and caked mud rattled
to the floor.
"That will do," the man said, not unkindly. "Sit down.
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