But now none would believe him.

They would argue from his silence and from his having suffered his brother to be unjustly accused that he was craven-hearted and dishonourable, and that if he had acted thus it was because he had no good defence to offer for his deed.
Not only would he be irrevocably doomed, but he would be doomed with ignominy, he would be scorned by all upright men and become a thing of contempt over whose end not a tear would be shed.
Thus he came to the dread conclusion that in his endeavours to screen himself he had but enmeshed himself the more inextricably.

If Oliver but spoke he was lost.

And back he came to the question: What assurance had he that Oliver would not speak?
The fear of this from occurring to him occasionally began to haunt him day and night, and for all that the fever had left him and his wound was entirely healed, he remained pale and thin and hollow-eyed.

Indeed the secret terror that was in his soul glared out of his eyes at every moment.