The scene was all so familiar, so deep in his heart and mind, that it was woven through every memory and dream he could imagine. It would be absurd—embarrassing, even—to say so, but his love for his father was so intense he could not bear to think of life without his friendship. Would he place his father’s safety, his happiness before Margaret’s? He did not really have to ask himself; he knew the answer before the question formed. Yes, he would. To betray him would be unbearable.

But at the same moment he also knew that Henry Rathbone would never do the things that Arthur Ballinger had. He made mistakes, had flaws in his character; of course he did, everyone did. Oliver did not wish to think of them, but he knew they were there. He could have named them, if forced to.

But he also knew that Henry would never have asked someone else to pay the price, or take the blame for him.

Perhaps Margaret believed the same of Ballinger? Were her memories just as deep, as woven into her own life, her beliefs? Was he being unfair to her?

But his withdrawal from her had nothing to do with ambition, or even with love. It had to do with Rathbone’s own identity. She was asking him to destroy himself, but if he did that, there would be nothing left for either of them. What she was asking of him was not a case of personal sacrifice; that might have been a more difficult decision. It was an issue of doing something he believed—no, something he knew—to be wrong.

He looked up at the sky as the starlings wheeled back again into the wind, still flying as if to some understood pattern, all going home to roost for the night.

Henry seemed to know he had reached a conclusion. He did not raise the subject again. They turned and walked together back through the apple trees toward the house.

AT HOME RATHBONE AND Margaret passed the weekend in bitter silence. The politeness between them was like walking on broken glass.

At dawn on Monday morning, Rathbone went again to see Arthur Ballinger to try to persuade him not to testify. As it was, he had a good chance of acquittal. He could prove his actual innocence later, if someone else were charged.

But Ballinger was obdurate. He would not leave the courtroom with this accusation still hanging over his existence, crippling his life, shadowing and tainting the lives of his family. Even the possibility of a guilty verdict did not deter him. He simply did not believe it could happen.

Was that supreme hubris, or was he actually innocent and Rathbone had badly misjudged him? He entered the courtroom still uncertain.

As soon as he called Ballinger to the stand, there was a rustle of excitement, a movement, a stiffening of attention.