her.
But Monk was right. It was almost certainly a political crime, if there were a crime at all, and Zorah's accusation was motivated more by jealousy than any basis in fact. The only legal advice he could honestly give her was to withdraw her charge and apologize unreservedly. Perhaps if she pleaded distress at Friedrich's death, and deep disappointment that he could not lead the battle for independence, there might be some compassion towards her. Damages might be moderated. Even so, she would almost certainly have ruined herself.
"Apologize?" she said incredulously when Rathbone was shown into her room with its exotic shawl and red leather sofa. "I will not!" The weather was considerably colder than when he had first come, and there was a huge fire roaring in the grate, flames leaping, throwing a red light into the bearskins on the floor and giving the room a barbaric look, curiously warming.
"You have no other reasonable choice," he said vehemently. "We have found no proof whatever of your charge. We are left with suppositions, which may well be true, but we cannot demonstrate them, and even if we could, they are no defense."
"Then I shall have to make an unreasonable choice," she said flatly. "Do I assume this is your very proper way of retreating from my case?" Her eyes were level and cold, a flare of challenge in them, and acute disappointment.
Rathbone was irritated, and if he were honest, a little stung. "If you do assume it, madam, you do so wrongly," he snapped. "It is my duty to advise you as to facts and my considered opinion as to what they may mean. Then I shall take your instructions, providing they do not require me to say or do anything that is contrary to the law."
"How terribly English." There was both laughter and contempt in her face. "It must make you feel impossibly safe - and comfortable. You live in the heart of an empire which stretches all 'round the world." She was angry now. "Name a continent and your British redcoats have fought there, carried by your British navy, subdued the natives and taught them Christianity, whether they wished to learn it or not, and instructed their princes how to behave like Englishmen."
What she said was true, and it startled him and made him feel suddenly artificial, violated and rather pompous.
Her voice was charged with emotion, deep and husky in her throat.
"You've forgotten what it is like to be frightened," she went on. 'To look at your neighbors and wonder when they are going to swallow you. Oh, I know you read about it in your history books! You learn about Napoleon and King Philip of Spain - and how you were on the brink of invasion, with your backs against the wall. But you beat them, didn't you! You always won." Her body was tight under its silk gown, and her face twisted with anger. "Well, we won't win, Sir Oliver. We shall lose. It may be immediately, it may be in ten years, or even twenty, but in the end we shall lose. It is the manner of our losing that we may be able to control, that's all. Have you the faintest idea what that feels like? I think not!"
"On the contrary," Rathbone said sardonically, although his words were only a defense against his own misjudgment and vulnerability. "I am imagining losing very vividly, and I am about to experience it in the courtroom." He knew as he said it that his own small personal defeat did not compare with the defeat of nations, the loss of centuries-old identity and concepts of freedom, however illusionary.
"You've given up!" she said with a lift of surprise which was contempt rather than question.
In spite of determining not to be, he was provoked. He would not let her see it. "I have faced reality," he contradicted. "That is a different side of the same coin. We have no alternative. It lies with me to tell you the facts and give you the best chance I can; and with you to choose."
Her eyebrows rose sharply. "Whether I surrender before the battle or fight until I may be beaten? What a nice irony. That is exactly the dilemma my country faces. For my country I think I do not choose assimilation, even though we cannot win. For myself I choose war."
"You cannot win either, madam," he said reluctantly. He hated having to tell her. She was stubborn, foolish, arrogant and self-indulgent,