Acting under the advice of his counsel, the accused prepares to avail
himself of the advantage thus conceded.
Directed by the judge, he stands forward; the sheriff's officers in
charge falling a step or two into the rear.
It is superfluous to say that there is universal silence. Even the tree
crickets, hitherto "chirping" among the leaves of the live-oak, desist
from their shrill stridulation--as if awed by the stillness underneath.
Every eye is fixed upon the prisoner; every ear bent to catch the first
words of, what may be termed, his _confession_.
"Judge, and gentlemen of the jury!" says he, commencing his speech in
true Texan style; "you are good enough to let me speak for myself; and
in availing myself of the privilege, I shall not long detain you.
"First, have I to say: that, notwithstanding the many circumstances
mentioned during the course of this trial--which to you appear not only
odd, but inexplicable--my story is simple enough; and will explain some
of them.
"Not all of the statements you have heard are true. Some of them are
false as the lips from which they have fallen."
The speaker's glance, directed upon Cassius Calhoun, causes the latter
to quail, as if standing before the muzzle of a six-shooter.
"It is true that I met Miss Poindexter, as stated. That noble lady, by
her own generous confession, has saved me from the sin of perjuring
myself--which otherwise I might have done. In all else I entreat you to
believe me.
"It is also true that our interview was a stolen one; and that it was
interrupted by him who is not here to speak to what occurred after.
"It is true that angry words passed between us, or rather from him to
me: for they were all on his side.
"But it is _not_ true that the quarrel was afterwards renewed; and the
man who has so sworn dared not say it, were I free to contradict him as
he deserves."
Again are the eyes of the accused turned towards Calhoun, still cowering
behind the crowd.
"On the contrary," continues he, "the next meeting between Henry
Poindexter and myself, was one of apology on his part, and friendship--I
might say affection--on mine.
"Who could have helped liking him? As to forgiving him for the few
words he had rashly spoken, I need hardly tell you how grateful I felt
for that reconciliation."
"There was a reconciliation, then?" asks the judge, taking advantage of
a pause in the narration. "Where did it take place?"
"About four hundred yards from the spot _where the murder was
committed_."
The judge starts to his feet. The jury do the same. The spectators,
already standing, show signs of a like exciting surprise.
It is the first time any one has spoken positively of the spot where the
murder was committed; or even that a murder has been committed at all!
"You mean the place where some blood was found?" doubtingly interrogates
the judge.
"I mean the place where _Henry Poindexter was assassinated_."
There is a fresh exhibition of astonishment in the Court--expressed in
muttered speeches and low exclamations. One louder than the rest is a
groan. It is given by Woodley Poindexter; now for the first time made
certain he has no longer a son! In the heart of the father has still
lingered a hope that his son may be alive: that he might be only
missing--kept out of the way by accident, illness, Indians, or some
other circumstance. As yet there has been no positive proof of his
death--only a thread of circumstantial evidence, and it of the
slightest.
This hope, by the testimony of the accused himself, is no longer
tenable.
"You are sure he is dead, then?" is the question put to the prisoner by
the prosecuting counsel.
"Quite sure," responds the accused. "Had you seen him as I did, you
would think the interrogatory a very idle one."
"You saw the body?"
"I must take exception to this course of examination," interposes the
counsel for the accused. "It is quite irregular."
"Faith! in an Owld Country court it wouldn't be allowed," adds the
Cis-Atlantic attorney. "The counsel for the prosecution wouldn't be
permitted to spake, till it came to the cross-examination."
"That's the law here, too," says the judge, with a severe gesture
towards him who has erred. "Prisoner at the bar! you can continue your
story. Your own counsel may ask you what question he pleases; but
nobody else, till you have done. Go on! Let us hear all you have to
say."
"I have spoken of a reconciliation," resumes the accused, "and have told
you where it took place. I must explain how it came to be there.
"It has been made known to you how we parted--Miss Poindexter, her
brother, and myself.
"On leaving them I swam across the river; partly because I was too
excited to care how I went off, and partly that I did not wish _him_ to
know how I had got into the garden. I had my reasons for that. I
walked on up stream, towards the village. It was a very warm night--as
may be remembered by many of you--and my clothes had got nearly dry by
the time I reached the hotel.
"The house was still open, and the landlord behind his bar; but as up to
that day I had no reason to thank him for any extra hospitality, and as
there was nothing to detain me any longer under his roof, I took it into
my head to set out at once for the Alamo, and make the journey during
the cool hours of the night.
"I had sent my servant before, and intended to follow in the morning;
but what happened at Casa del Corvo made me desirous of getting away as
soon as possible; and I started off, after settling my account with Mr
Oberdoffer."
"And the money with which you paid him?" asks the State prosecutor,
"where did you get--?"
"I protest against this!" interrupts the counsel for the accused.
"Bedarrah!" exclaims the Milesian lawyer, looking daggers, or rather
_duelling pistols_, at the State counsellor; "if yez were to go on at
that rate in a Galway assize, ye'd stand a nate chance of gettin'
conthradicted in a different style altogether!"
"Silence, gentlemen!" commands the judge, in an authoritative tone.
"Let the accused continue his statement."
"I travelled slowly. There was no reason for being in a hurry. I was
in no mood for going to sleep that night; and it mattered little to me
where I should spend it--on the prairie, or under the roof of my
_jacale_. I knew I could reach the Alamo before daybreak; and that
would be as soon as I desired.
"I never thought of looking behind me. I had no suspicion that any one
was coming after; until I had got about half a mile into the chapparal--
where the Rio Grande trace runs through it.
"Then I heard the stroke of a horse's hoof, that appeared hurrying up
behind.
"I had got round the corner--where the trace makes a sharp turn--and was
hindered from seeing the horseman. But I could tell that he was coming
on at a trot.
"It might be somebody I wouldn't care to encounter?
"That was the reflection I made; though I wasn't much caring who. It
was more from habit--by living in the neighbourhood of the Indians--that
I drew in among the trees, and waited until the stranger should show
himself.
"He did so shortly after.
"You may judge of my surprise when, instead of a stranger, I saw the man
from whom I had so lately parted in anger. When I say anger, I don't
speak of myself--only him.
"Was he still in the same temper? Had he been only restrained by the
presence of his sister from attacking me? Relieved of this, had he come
after me to demand satisfaction for the injury he supposed her to have
sustained?
"Gentlemen of the jury! I shall not deny, that this was the impression
on my mind when I saw who it was.
"I was determined there should be no concealment--no cowardly shrinking
on my part. I was not conscious of having committed crime. True I had
met his sister clandestinely; but that was the fault of others--not
mine--not hers. I loved her with a pure honest passion, and with my
whole heart. I am not afraid to confess it. In the same way I love her
still!"
Louise Poindexter, seated in her carriage behind the outer circle of
spectators, is not so distant from the speaker, nor are the curtains so
closely drawn, but that she can hear every word passing from his lips.
Despite the sadness of her heart, a gleam of joy irradiates her
countenance, as she listens to the daring declaration.
It is but the echo of her own; and the glow that comes quickly to her
cheeks is not shame, but the expression of a proud triumph.
She makes no attempt to conceal it. Rather does she appear ready to
spring up from her seat, rush towards the man who is being tried for the
murder of her brother, and with the _abandon_ that love alone can
impart, bid defiance to the boldest of his accusers!
If the signs of sorrow soon reappear, they are no longer to be traced to
jealousy. Those sweet ravings are well remembered, and can now be
trusted as truth. They are confirmed by the confession of restored
reason--by the avowal of a man who may be standing on the stoup of
death, and can have no earthly motive for a deception such as that!