After its second involuntary recess--less prolonged than the first--the
Court has once more resumed its functions under the great evergreen oak.
It is now evening; and the sunbeams, falling aslant, intrude upon the
space canopied by the tree.
From the golden brightness, displayed by them at noon, they have changed
to a lurid red--as if there was anger in the sky!
It is but an accident of the atmosphere--the portent of an approaching
storm.
For all this, it is remarked as singular, that a storm should be coming
at the time: since it symbolises the sentiment of the spectators, who
look on with sullenness in their hearts, and gloom in their glances.
It would seem as if Heaven's wrath was acting in concert with the
passions of Earth!
Maurice Gerald is no longer the cynosure of those scowling eyes. He has
been clamorously acquitted, and is henceforth only one of the witnesses.
In the place late occupied by him another stands. Cassius Calhoun is
now the prisoner at the bar!
This is the only change observable.
The judge is the same, the jury the same, and the spectators as before;
though with very different feelings in regard to the criminality of the
accused.
His guilt is no longer the question that is being considered.
It has been established beyond the shadow of a doubt. The evidence is
already before them; and though entirely circumstantial--as in most
cases of murder--the circumstances form a chain irresistibly conclusive
and complete.
There is but one missing link--if link it may be called--the _motive_.
The motive both for the murder and the mutilation: for the testimony of
Gerald has been confirmed by a subsequent examination of the dead body.
The surgeon of the cantonment has pronounced the two distinct, and that
Henry Poindexter's death must have ensued, almost instantaneously after
his receiving the shot.
Why should Cassius Calhoun have killed his own cousin? _Why_ cut off
his head?
No one can answer these questions, save the murderer himself. No one
expects him to do so--save to his Maker.
Before Him he must soon stand: for a knowledge of the motive is not
deemed essential to his condemnation, and he has been condemned.
The trial has come to a close; the verdict _Guilty_ has been given; and
the judge, laying aside his Panama hat, is about to put on the black
cap--that dread emblem of death--preparatory to pronouncing the
sentence.
In the usual solemn manner the condemned man is invited to make his
final speech; to avail himself, as it were, of the last forlorn hope for
sentence.
He starts at the invitation--falling, as it does, like a death-knell
upon his ear.
He looks wildly around. Despairingly: when on the faces that encircle
him he sees not one wearing an expression of sympathy.
There is not even pity. All appear to frown upon him.
His confederates--those payed ruffians who have hitherto supported him--
are of no use now, and their sympathy of no consequence. They have
shrunk out of sight--before the majesty of the law, and the damning
evidence of his guilt.
Despite his social standing--and the wealth to sustain it--he sees
himself alone; without friend or sympathiser: for so stands the assassin
in Texas!
His demeanour is completely changed. In place of that high haughty
air--oft exhibited in bold brutal bullyism--he looks cowed and craven.
And not strange that he should.
He feels that there is no chance of escape; that he is standing by the
side of his coffin--on the edge of an Eternity too terrible to
contemplate.
To a conscience like his, it cannot be otherwise than appalling.
All at once a light is seen to flask into his eyes--sunken as they are
in the midst of two livid circles. He has the air of one on the eve of
making confession.
Is it to be an acknowledgment of guilt? Is he about to unburden his
conscience of the weight that must be on it?
The spectators, guessing his intention, stand breathlessly observing
him.
There is silence even among the cicadas.
It is broken by the formalised interrogatory of the judge?
"_Have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be
pronounced upon you_?"
"No!" he replies, "I have not. The jury has given a just verdict. I
acknowledge that I have forfeited my life, and deserve to lose it."
Not during all the day--despite its many strange incidents and startling
surprises--have the spectators been so astonished. They are confounded
beyond the power of speech; and in silence permit the condemned man to
proceed, with what they now perceive to be his confession.
"It is quite true," continues he, "that I killed Henry Poindexter--shot
him dead in the chapparal."
The declaration is answered by a cry from the crowd. It is altogether
involuntary, and expresses horror rather than indignation.
Alike involuntary is the groan that goes with it--proceeding from a
single individual, whom all know to be the father of the murdered man--
once more in their midst.
Beyond these sounds, soon ceasing, there is nothing to hinder the
confession from being continued.
"I know that I've got to die," proceeds the prisoner, with an air of
seeming recklessness. "You have decreed it; and I can tell by your
looks you have no intention to change your minds.
"After what I've confessed, it would be folly in me to expect pardon;
and I don't. I've been a bad fellow; and no doubt have done enough to
deserve my fate. But, bad as I may have been, I'm not vile enough to be
sent out of the world, and leave behind me the horrid imputation of
having _murdered_ my own cousin. I did take his life, as I've told you.
You are all asking why, and conjecturing about the motive. There was
none."
A new "sensation" makes itself manifest among the spectators. It
partakes of surprise, curiosity, and incredulity.
No one speaks, or in any way attempts interruption.
"You wonder at that. It's easily explained. _I killed him by
mistake_!"
The surprise culminates in a shout; suppressed as the speaker proceeds.
"Yes, by mistake; and God knows I was sorry enough, on discovering that
I had made it. I didn't know myself till long after."
The condemned man looks up, as if in hopes that he has touched a chord
of mercy. There is no sign of it, on the faces that surround him--still
solemnly austere.
"I don't deny," continues he; "I needn't--that I intended to kill some
one. I did. Nor am I going to deny who it was. It was the cur I _see_
standing before me."
In a glance of concentrated hatred, the speaker rests his eye upon
Gerald; who only answers with a look, so calm as almost to betray
indifference.
"Yes. I intended to kill _him_. I had my reasons. I'm not going to
say what they were. It's no use now.
"I thought I _had_ killed him; but, as hell's luck would have it, the
Irish hound had changed cloaks with my cousin.
"You know the rest. By mistake I fired the shot--meant for an enemy,
and fatal to a friend. It was sure enough; and poor Henry dropped from
his horse. But to make more sure, I drew out my knife; and the cursed
serape still deceiving me, I hacked off his head."
The "sensation" again expresses itself in shuddering and shouts--the
latter prolonged into cries of retribution--mingled with that murmuring
which proclaims a story told.
There is no more mystery, either about the murder or its motive; and the
prisoner is spared further description of that fiendish deed, that left
the dead body of Henry Poindexter without a head.
"Now!" cries he, as the shouting subsides, and the spectators stand
glaring upon him, "you know all that's passed; but not what's to come.
There's another scene yet. You see me standing on my grave; but I don't
go into it, till I've sent _him_ to _his_. I don't, by God!"
There is no need to guess at the meaning of this profane speech--the
last of Calhoun's life. Its meaning is made clear by the act that
accompanies it.
While speaking he has kept his right hand under the left breast of his
coat. Along with the oath it comes forth, holding a revolver.
The spectators have just time to see the pistol--as it glints under the
slanting sunbeams--when two shots are heard in quick succession.
With a like interval between, two men fall forward upon their faces; and
lie with their heads closely contiguous!
One is Maurice Gerald, the mustanger,--the other Cassius Calhoun,
ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.
The crowd closes around, believing both to be dead; while through the
stillness that succeeds is heard a female voice, in those wild plaintive
tones that tell of a heart nigh parting in twain!