If the last speech has given satisfaction to Louise Poindexter, there
are few who share it with her. Upon most of the spectators it has
produced an impression of a totally different character.
It is one of the saddest traits of our ignoble nature; to feel pain in
contemplating a love we cannot share--more especially when exhibited in
the shape of a grand absorbing passion.
The thing is not so difficult of explanation. _We_ know that he, or
she, thus sweetly possessed, can feel no interest in ourselves.
It is but the old story of self-esteem, stung by the thought of
indifference.
Even some of the spectators unaffected by the charms of the beautiful
Creole, cannot restrain themselves from a certain feeling of envy; while
others more deeply interested feel chagrined to the heart's core, by
what they are pleased to designate an impudent avowal!
If the story of the accused contains no better proofs of his innocence
it were better untold. So far, it has but helped his accusers by
exciting the antipathy of those who would have been otherwise neutral.
Once more there is a murmuring among the men, and a movement among the
rowdies who stand near Calhoun.
Again seems Maurice Gerald in danger of being seized by a lawless mob,
and hanged without farther hearing!
The danger exists only in seeming. Once more the major glances
significantly towards his well-trained troop; the judge in an
authoritative voice commands "Silence in the Court!" the clamouring is
subdued; and the prisoner is permitted to proceed.