"A trial indeed! A fair trial! The accused without counsel--condemned
without being heard! And this you call justice? Texan justice? My
scorn upon you--not men, but murderers!"
"What means this?" shouts Poindexter, rushing up, and seizing his
daughter by the arm. "You are mad--Loo--mad! How come you to be here?
Did I not tell you to go home? Away--this instant away; and do not
interfere with what does not concern you!"
"Father, it does concern me!"
"How?--how?--oh true--as a sister! This man is the murderer of your
brother."
"I will not--_cannot_ believe it. Never--never! There was no motive.
O men! if you be men, do not act like savages. Give him a fair trial,
and then--then--"
"He's had a fair trial," calls one from the crowd, who seems to speak
from instigation; "Ne'er a doubt about his being guilty. It's him
that's killed your brother, and nobody else. And it don't look well,
Miss Poindexter--excuse me for saying it;--but it don't look just the
thing, that _you_ should be trying to screen him from his deserving."
"No, that it don't," chime in several voices. "Justice must take its
course!" shouts one, in the hackneyed phrase of the law courts.
"It must!--it must!" echoes the chorus. "We are sorry to disoblige you,
miss; but we must request you to leave. Mr Poindexter, you'd do well
to take your daughter away."
"Come, Loo! 'Tis not the place You must come away. You refuse! Good
God! my daughter; do you mean to disobey me? Here, Cash; take hold of
her arm, and conduct her from the spot. If you refuse to go willingly,
we must use force, Loo. A good girl now. Do as I tell you. Go! Go!"
"No, father, I will not--I shall not--till you have promised--till these
men promise--"
"We can't promise you anything, miss--however much we might like it. It
ain't a question for women, no how. There's been a crime committed--a
murder, as ye yourself know. There must be no cheating of justice.
There's no mercy for a murderer!"
"No mercy!" echo a score of angry voices. "Let him be hanged--hanged--
hanged!"
The Regulators are no longer restrained by the fair presence. Perhaps
it has but hastened the fatal moment. The soul of Cassius Calhoun is
not the only one in that crowd stirred by the spirit of envy. The horse
hunter is now hated for his supposed good fortune.
In the tumult of revengeful passion, all gallantry is forgotten,--that
very virtue for which the Texan is distinguished.
The lady is led aside--dragged rather than led--by her cousin, and at
the command of her father. She struggles in the hated arms that hold
her--wildly weeping, loudly protesting against the act of inhumanity.
"Monsters! murderers!" are the phrases that fall from her lips.
Her struggles are resisted; her speeches unheeded. She is borne back
beyond the confines of the crowd--beyond the hope of giving help to him,
for whom she is willing to lay down her life!
Bitter are the speeches Calhoun is constrained to hear--heartbreaking
the words now showered upon him. Better for him he had not taken hold
of her.
It scarce consoles him--that certainty of revenge. His rival will soon
be no more; but what matters it? The fair form writhing in his grasp
can never be consentingly embraced. He may kill the hero of her heart,
but not conquer for himself its most feeble affection!