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 théâtre.
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.
Chapter LXXXIX. The Confession of the Accused
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.