Before the monotonous summons has been three times repeated, the lady is
seen descending the steps of her carriage.
Conducted by an officer of the Court, she takes her stand on the spot
set apart for the witnesses.
Without flinching--apparently without fear--she faces towards the Court.
All eyes are upon her: some interrogatively; a few, perhaps, in scorn:
but many in admiration--that secret approval which female loveliness
exacts, even when allied with guilt!
One regards her with an expression different from the rest: a look of
tenderest passion, dashed with an almost imperceptible distrust.
It is the prisoner himself. From him her eyes are averted as from
everybody else.
Only one man she appears to think worthy of her attention--he who has
just forsaken the stand she occupies. She looks at Calhoun, her own
cousin--as though with her eyes she would kill him.
Cowering under the glance, he slinks back, until the crowd conceals him
from her sight.
"Where were you, Miss Poindexter, on the night when your brother was
last seen?"
The question is put by the State counsellor.
"At home,--in my father's house."
"May I ask, if on that night you went into the garden?"
"I did."
"Perhaps you will be good enough to inform the Court at what hour?"
"At the hour of midnight--if I rightly remember."
"Were you alone?"
"Not all the time."
"Part of it there was some one with you?"
"There was."
"Judging by your frankness, Miss Poindexter, you will not refuse to
inform the Court who that person was?"
"Certainly not."
"May I ask the name of the individual?"
"There was more than one. My brother was there."
"But before your brother came upon the ground, was there not some one
else in your company?"
"There was."
"It is _his_ name we wish you to give. I hope you will not withhold
it."
"Why should I? You are welcome to know that the gentleman, who was with
me, was Mr Maurice Gerald."
The answer causes surprise, and something more. There is a show of
scorn, not unmixed with indignation.
There is one on whom it produces a very different effect--the prisoner
at the bar--who looks more triumphant than any of his accusers!
"May I ask if this meeting was accidental, or by appointment?"
"By appointment."
"It is a delicate question, Miss Poindexter; you will pardon me for
putting it--in the execution of my duty:--What was the nature--the
object I should rather term it--of this appointment?"
The witness hesitates to make answer.
Only for an instant. Braising herself from the stooping attitude she
has hitherto held, and casting a careless glance upon the faces around
her, she replies--
"Motive, or object, it is all the same. I have no intention to conceal
it. I went into the garden to meet the man I loved--whom I still love,
though he stands before you an accused criminal! Now, sir, I hope you
are satisfied?"
"Not quite," continues the prosecuting counsel, unmoved by the murmurs
heard around him; "I must ask you another question, Miss Poindexter.
The course I am about to take, though a little irregular, will save the
time of the Court; and I think no one will object to it. You have heard
what has been said by the witness who preceded you. Is it true that
your brother parted in anger with the prisoner at the bar?"
"Quite true."
The answer sends a thrill through the crowd--a thrill of indignation.
It confirms the story of Calhoun. It establishes the _motive_ of the
murder!
The bystanders do not wait for the explanation the witness designs to
give. There is a cry of "Hang--hang him!" and, along with it, a
demonstration for this to be done without staying for the verdict of the
jury, "Order in the Court!" cries the judge, taking the cigar from
between his teeth, and looking authoritatively around him.
"My brother did not _follow him in anger_," pursues the witness, without
being further questioned. "He had forgiven Mr Gerald; and went after
to apologise."
"_I_ have something to say about that," interposes Calhoun, disregarding
the irregularity of the act; "they quarrelled _afterwards_. I heard
them, from where I was standing on the top of the house."
"Mr Calhoun!" cries the judge rebukingly; "if the counsel for the
prosecution desire it, you can be put in the box again. Meanwhile, sir,
you will please not interrupt the proceedings."
After a few more questions, eliciting answers explanatory of what she
has last alleged, the lady is relieved from her embarrassing situation.
She goes back to her carriage with a cold heaviness at her heart: for
she has become conscious that, by telling the truth, she has damaged the
cause of him she intended to serve. Her own too: for in passing through
the crowd she does not fail to perceive eyes turned upon her, that
regard her with an expression too closely resembling contempt!
The "chivalry" is offended by her condescension; the morality shocked by
her free confession of that midnight meeting; to say nought of the envy
felt for the _bonne fortune_ of him who has been so daringly endorsed.
Calhoun is once more called to the stand; and by some additional
perjury, strengthens the antipathy already felt for the accused. Every
word is a lie; but his statements appear too plausible to be
fabrications.
Again breaks forth the clamour of the crowd. Again is heard the cry,
"Hang!"--this time more vociferous, more earnest, than ever.
This time, too, the action is more violent. Men strip off their coats,
and fling their hats into the air. The women in the waggons--and even
those of gentle strain in the carriages--seem, to share the frenzied
spite against the prisoner--all save that one, who sits screened behind
the curtain.
She too shows indignation; but from a different cause. If she trembles
at the commotion, it is not through fear; but from the bitter
consciousness that she has herself assisted in stirring it up. In this
dark hour she remembers the significant speech of Calhoun: that from her
own lips were to come the words that would prove Maurice Gerald a
murderer!
The clamour continues, increasing in earnestness. There are things said
aloud--insinuations against the accused--designed to inflame the
passions of the assembly; and each moment the outcry grows fiercer and
more virulent.
Judge Roberts--the name of him who presides--is in peril of being
deposed; to be succeeded by the lawless Lynch!
And then what must follow? For Maurice Gerald no more trial; no
condemnation: for that has been done already. No shrift neither; but a
quick execution, occupying only the time it will take half a score of
expert rope-men to throw a noose around his neck, and jerk him up to the
limb of the live-oak stretching horizontally over his head!
This is the thought of almost everybody on the ground, as they stand
waiting for some one to say the word--some bad, bold borderer daring
enough to take the initiative.
Thanks be to God, the spectators are not _all_ of this mind. A few have
determined on bringing the affair to a different finale.
There is a group of men in uniform, seen in excited consultation. They
are the officers of the Fort, with the commandant in their midst.
Only for a score of seconds does their council continue. It ends with
the braying of a bugle. It is a signal sounded by command of the major.
Almost at the same instant a troop of two-score dragoons, with a like
number of mounted riflemen, is seen filing out from the stockade
enclosure that extends rearward from the Fort.
Having cleared the gateway, they advance over the open ground in the
direction of the live-oak.
Silently, and as though acting under an instinct, they deploy into an
alignment--forming three sides of a square, that partially encloses the
Court!
The crowd has ceased its clamouring; and stands gazing at a spectacle,
which might be taken for a _coup de theatre_.
It produces not only silence, but submission: for plainly do they
perceive its design, and that the movement is a precautionary measure
due to the skill of the commanding officer of the post.
Equally plain is it, that the presidency of Justice Lynch is no longer
possible; and that the law of the land is once more in the ascendant.
Without further opposition Judge Roberts is permitted to resume his
functions, so rudely interrupted.
"Fellow citizens!" he cries, with a glance towards his auditory, now
more reproachful than appealing, "the law is bound to take its course--
just the same in Texas as in the States. I need not tell you that,
since most of you, I reckon, have seen corn growing on the other side of
the Mississippi. Well, taking this for granted, you wouldn't hang a man
without first hearing what he's got to say for himself? That would
neither be law, nor justice, but downright murder!"
"And hasn't he done murder?" asks one of the rowdies standing near
Calhoun. "It's only sarvin' him, as he sarved young Poindexter."
"There is no certainty about that. You've not yet heard all the
testimony. Wait till we've examined the witnesses on the other side.
Crier!" continues he, turning to the official; "call the witnesses for
the defence."
The crier obeys; and Phelim O'Neal is conducted to the stand.
The story of the _ci-devant_ stable-boy, confusedly told, full of
incongruities--and in many parts altogether improbable--rather injures
the chances of his master being thought innocent.
The San Antonio counsel is but too anxious for his testimony to be cut
short--having a firmer reliance on the tale to be told by another.
That other is next announced.
"Zebulon Stump!"
Before the voice of the summoning officer has ceased to reverberate
among the branches of the live-oak, a tall stalwart specimen of humanity
is seen making his way through the throng--whom all recognise as Zeb
Stump, the most noted hunter of the Settlement.
Taking three or four strides forward, the backwoodsman comes to a stand
upon the spot set apart for the witnesses.
The sacred volume is presented to him in due form; which, after
repeating the well-known words of the "affidavit," Zeb is directed to
kiss.
He performs this operation with a smack sufficiently sonorous to be
heard to the extreme outside circle of the assemblage.
Despite the solemnity of the scene, there is an audible tittering,
instantly checked by the judge; a little, perhaps, by Zeb himself, whose
glance, cast inquiringly around, seems to search for some one, that may
be seen with a sneer upon his face.
The character of the man is too well known, for any one to suppose he
might make merry at his expense; and before his searching glance the
crowd resumes, or affects to resume, its composure.
After a few preliminary questions, Zeb is invited to give his version of
the strange circumstances, which, have been keeping the Settlement in a
state of unwonted agitation.
The spectators prick up their ears, and stand in expectant silence.
There is a general impression that Zeb holds the key to the whole
mystery.
"Wal, Mister Judge!" says he, looking straight in the face of that
cigar-smoking functionary; "I've no objection to tell what I know 'beout
the bizness; but ef it be all the same to yurself, an the Jewry hyur,
I'd preefar that the young fellur shed gie his varsion fust. I kud then
foller wi' mine, the which mout sartify and confirm him."
"Of what young fellow do you speak?" inquires the judge.
"The mowstanger thur, in coorse. Him as stan's 'cused o' killin' young
Peintdexter."
"It would be somewhat irregular," rejoins the judge--"After all, our
object is to get at the truth. For my part, I haven't much faith in
old-fashioned forms; and if the jury don't object, let it be as you
say."
The "twelve," speaking through their foreman, profess themselves of the
same way of thinking. Frontiersmen are not noted for strict adherence
to ceremonious forms; and Zeb's request is conceded _nemine
dissentiente_.