“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 jacalé. 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.