Part 88 (1/2)

Even their tongues are not free. Phelim has been cursed and scared into silence; while to his master speech is rendered impossible by a piece of stick fastened bitt-like between his teeth. It has been done to prevent interruption by the insane ravings, that would otherwise issue from his lips.

Even the tight-drawn thongs cannot keep him in place. Two men, one at each shoulder, with a third seated upon his knees, hold him to the ground. His eyes alone are free to move; and these rolling in their sockets glare upon his guards with wild unnatural glances, fearful to encounter.

Only one of the prisoners is arraigned on the capital charge; the other is but doubtfully regarded as an accomplice.

The servant alone has been examined--asked to confess all he knows, and what he has to say for himself. It is no use putting questions to his master.

Phelim has told his tale--too strange to be credited; though the strangest part of it--that relating to his having seen a horseman without ahead--is looked upon as the least improbable!

He cannot explain it; and his story but strengthens the suspicion already aroused--that the spectral apparition is a part of the scheme of murder!

”All stuff his tales about tiger-fights and Indians!” say those to whom he has been imparting them. ”A pack of lies, contrived to mislead us-- nothing else.”

The trial has lasted scarce ten minutes; and yet the jury have come to their conclusion.

In the minds of most--already predisposed to it--there is a full conviction that Henry Poindexter is a dead man, and that Maurice Gerald is answerable for his death.

Every circ.u.mstance already known has been reconsidered; while to these have been added the new facts discovered at the jacale--the ugliest of which is the finding of the cloak and hat.

The explanations given by the Galwegian, confused and incongruous, carry no credit. Why should they? They are the inventions of an accomplice.

There are some who will scarce stay to hear them--some who impatiently cry out, ”Let the murderer be hanged!”

As if this verdict had been antic.i.p.ated, a rope lies ready upon the ground, with a noose at its end. It is only a lazo; but for the purpose Calcraft could not produce a more perfect piece of cord.

A sycamore standing near offers a horizontal limb--good enough for a gallows.

The vote is taken _viva voce_.

Eighty out of the hundred jurors express their opinion: that Maurice Gerald must die. His hour appears to have come.

And yet the sentence is not carried into execution. The rope is suffered to lie guileless on the gra.s.s. No one seems willing to lay hold of it!

Why that hanging back, as if the thong of horse-hide was a venomous snake, that none dares to touch?

The majority--the _plurality_, to use a true Western word--has p.r.o.nounced the sentence of death; some strengthening it with rude, even blasphemous, speech. Why is it not carried out?

Why? For want of that unanimity, that stimulates to immediate action-- for want of the proofs to produce it.

There is a minority not satisfied--that with less noise, but equally earnest emphasis, have answered ”No.”

It is this that has caused a suspension of the violent proceedings.

Among this minority is Judge Lynch himself--Sam Manly, the Chief of the Regulators. He has not yet pa.s.sed sentence; or even signified his acceptance of the acclamatory verdict.

”Fellow citizens!” cries he, as soon as he has an opportunity of making himself heard, ”I'm of the opinion, that there's a doubt in this case; and I reckon we ought to give the accused the benefit of it--that is, till he be able to say his own say about it. It's no use questioning him now, as ye all see. We have him tight and fast; and there's not much chance of his getting clear--_if_ guilty. Therefore, I move we postpone the trial, till--”

”What's the use of postponing it?” interrupts a voice already loud for the prosecution, and which can be distinguished as that of Ca.s.sius Calhoun. ”What's the use, Sam Manly? It's all very well for you to talk that way; but if _you_ had a friend foully murdered--I won't say cousin, but a son, a brother--you might not be so soft about it. What more do you want to show that the skunk's guilty? Further proofs?”

”That's just what we want, Captain Calhoun.”