The Eye of Dread Part 61

"Your Honor," said the examiner, "we all know that the son of the plaintiff was lame, but this young man is sound on both his feet. You have been told that Richard Kildene was struck on the head and this young man bears the scar above his temple--"

Richard started forward, putting his hand to his head and lifting his hair as he did so. He tried to call out, but in his excitement his voice died in his throat, and Larry seized him and held him back.

"Watch him,--watch your uncle," he whispered in his ear. "He thinks he has you there in the box and he wants you to get the worst the law will give you. Watch him! The girl understands him. See her eyes upon him. Stand still, boy; give him a chance to have his will. He'll find it bitter when he learns the truth, and 'twill do him good. Wait, man!

You'll have it all in your hands later, and they'll be none the worse for waiting a bit longer. Hold on for my sake, son. I'll tell you why later, and you'll not be sorry you gave heed to me."

In these short e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed sentences, with his arm through Richard's, Larry managed to keep him by his side as the examiner talked on.

"Your Honor, this young lady admits that she has visited the prisoner in the jail, and can give adequate reason for her a.s.sertion that he is the man he claims to be. She tells us what occurred in that fight on the bluff--things that she was not there to see, things she could only learn from the prisoner: is there not reason to believe that her evidence has been arranged between them?"

"Yes, he told me,--Peter Junior told me, and he came here to give himself up, but you won't let him give himself up."

"Miss Ballard," said the judge again, "you will remember that you are to speak only in reply to questions put to you. Mr. Hibbard, continue the examination."

"Miss Ballard, you admit that you saw Richard Kildene after he fought with his cousin?"

"Yes."

"Was his head wounded?"

"Yes."

"What did you do?"

"I washed his head and bound it up. It was all bleeding."

"Very well. Then you can say on your sacred oath that Richard Kildene was living and not murdered?"

"Yes."

"Did you see Peter Junior after they fought?"

"No. If I had seen him, I could have told everybody they were both alive and there would have been no--"

"Look at the prisoner. Can you tell the jury where the cut on Richard Kildene's head was?"

"Yes, I can. When I stood in front of him to bind it up, it was under my right hand."

From this point the examiner began to touch upon things Betty would gladly have concealed in her own heart, concerning her engagement to Peter Junior, and her secret understanding with his cousin, and whether she loved the one or the other, and what characteristics in them caused her to prefer the one over the other, and why she had never confided her preferences to any of her relatives or friends.

Still, with head erect, Betty flung back her answers.

Bertrand listened and writhed. The prisoner sat with bowed head. To him she seemed a veritable saint. He knew how she suffered in this public revelation of herself--of her innocent struggle between love and loyalty, and maiden modesty, and that the desire to protect him and help him was giving her strength. He saw how valiantly she has been guarding her terrible secret from all the world while he had been fleeing and hiding. Ah, if he had only been courageous! If he had not fled, nor tried to cover his flight with proofs of his death! If he had but stood to his guns like a soldier! He covered his face in shame.

As for Richard, he gloried in her. He felt his heart swell in triumph as he listened. He heard Amalia Manovska murmur: "Ah, how she is very beautiful! No wonder it is that they both loved her!"

While he was filled with admiration for her, yet his heart ached for her, and with anger and reproach against himself. He saw no one but her, and he wanted to end it all and carry her away, but still yielded to his father's earnest plea that he should wait. He understood, and would restrain himself until Larry was satisfied, and the trial ended.

Still the examination went on.

"Miss Ballard, you admit that Peter Junior was lame when last you saw him, and you observe that the prisoner has no lameness, and you admit that you bound up a wound which had been inflicted on the head of Richard Kildene, and here you see the scar upon the prisoner; can you still on your sacred oath declare this man to be the son of the plaintiff?"

"Yes!" She looked earnestly at the prisoner. "It is not the same head and it is not the same scar." Again she extended her hands toward the jury pleadingly and then toward the prisoner. "It is not by people's legs we know them,--nor by their scars--it is by themselves--by--by their souls. Oh! I know you, Peter! I know you!"

With the first petulance Milton Hibbard had shown during the trial he now turned to the prisoner's counsel and said: "Take the witness."

"No cross-examination?" asked Nathan Goodbody, with a smile.

"No."

Then Betty flung one look back at the Elder, and fled to her mother and hid her flushed face on Mary Ballard's bosom.

Now for the first time Richard could take an interest in the trial merely for his own and Peter Junior's sake. He saw Nathan Goodbody lean over and say a few words hurriedly to the prisoner, then rise and slightly lift his hand as if to make a special request.

"If the court please, the accused desires permission to tell his own story. May he be sworn on his own behalf?"

Permission being given, the prisoner rose and walked to the witness chair, and having been sworn by the clerk to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, began his statement.

Standing there watching him, and listening, Richard felt his heart throb with the old friends.h.i.+p for this comrade of his childhood, his youth, and his young manhood, in school, in college, and, at last, tramping side by side on long marches, camping together, sleeping side by side through many a night when the morrow might bring for them death or wounds, victory or imprisonment,--sharing the same emotions even until the first great pa.s.sion of their lives cut them asunder.

Brought up without father or mother, this friends.h.i.+p had meant more to Richard than to most men. As he heard his cousin's plea he was only held from hurrying forward with extended arms by Larry's whispered words.

"It's fine, son. Let him have his say out. Don't stop him. Watch how it works on the old man yonder," for Peter Junior was telling of his childhood among the people of Leauvite, speaking in a low, clear voice which carried to all parts of the room.

"Your Honor, and Gentlemen of the Jury, Because I have no witness to attest to the truth of my claim, I am forced to make this plea, simply that you may believe me, that the accusation which my father through his lawyer brings against me could never be possible. You who knew my cousin, Richard Kildene, how honorable his life and his nature, know how impossible to him would be the crime of which I, in his name, am accused. I could not make this claim were I any other than I am--the son of the man who--does not recognize his son.

"Gentlemen of the Jury, you all knew us as boys together--how we loved each other and shared our pleasures like brothers--or more than brothers, for we quarreled less than brothers often do. During all the deep friends.h.i.+p of our lives, only once were we angry with each other--only once--and then--blinded by a great pa.s.sion and swept beyond all knowledge of our acts, like men drunken we fought--we struggled against each other. Our friends.h.i.+p was turned to hatred. We tried--I think my cousin was trying to throw me over the brink of the bluff--at least he was near doing it. I do not make the plea of self-defense--for I was not acting in self-defense. I was lame, as you have heard, and not so strong as he. I could not stand against his greater strength,--but in my arms and hands I had power,--and I struck him with my cane. With all my force I struck him, and he--he--fell--wounded--and I--I--saw the blood gush from the wound I had made in his temple--with the stick I carried that day--in the place of my crutch.

"Your Honor and Gentlemen of the Jury, it was my--intent to kill him.

I--I--saw him lying at my feet--and thought I had done so." Here Peter Junior bowed his head and covered his face with his hands, and a breathless silence reigned in the court room until he lifted his head and began again. "It is now three years and more--and during all the time that has pa.s.sed--I have seen him lying so--white--dead--and red with his own blood--that I had shed. You asked me why I have at last returned, and I reply, because I will no longer bear that sight. It is the curse of Cain that hangs over a murderer's soul, and follows wherever he goes. I tell you the form of my dead friend went with me always--sleeping, he lay beside me; waking, he lay at my feet. When I looked into the shadows, he was there, and when I worked in the mine and swung my pick against the walls of rock, it seemed that I still struck at my friend.

"Well may my father refuse to own me as his son--me--a murderer--but one thing can I yet do to expiate my deed,--I can free my cousin's name from all blame, and if I were to hang for my deed, gladly would I walk over coals to the gallows, rather than that such a crime should be laid at his door as that he tried to return here and creep into my place after throwing me over the bluff into those terrible waters.

"Do with me what you will, Gentlemen of the Jury, but free his name. I understand that my cousin's body was never found lying there as I had left it when I fled in cowardice--when I tried to make all the world think me also dead, and left him lying there--when I pushed the great stone out of its place down where I had so nearly gone, and left my hat lying as it had fallen and threw the articles from my pocket over after the stone I had sent cras.h.i.+ng down into the river. Since the testimony here given proves that I was mistaken in my belief that I had killed him, may G.o.d be thanked, I am free from the guilt of that deed. Until he returns or until he is found and is known to be living, do with me what you will. I came to you to surrender myself and make this confession before you, and as I stand here in your presence and before my Maker, I declare to you that what I have said is the truth."

As he ceased speaking he looked steadily at the Elder's averted face, then sat down, regarding no one else. He felt he had failed, and he sat with head bowed in shame and sorrow. A low murmur rose and swept through the court room like a sound of wind before a storm, and the old Elder leaned toward his lawyer and spoke in low tones, lifting a shaking finger, then dropped his hand and s.h.i.+fted slightly in his chair.

As he did so Milton Hibbard arose and began his cross-examination.

The simplicity of Peter Junior's story, and the ingenuous manner in which it had been told, called for a different cross-examination from that which would have been adopted if this same counsel had been called upon to cross-examine the Swede. He made no effort to entangle the witness, but he led him instead to repeat that part of his testimony in which he had told of the motive which induced him to return and give himself up to justice. In doing so his questions, the tone of his voice, and his manner were marked with incredulity. It was as if he were saying to the jury: "Just listen to this impossible story while I take him over it again. Did you ever hear anything like it?" When he had gone in this direction as far as he thought discreet, he asked abruptly: "I understand that you admit that you intended to kill your cousin, and supposed you had killed him?"

"Yes. I admit it."

"And that you ran away to escape the consequences?"

"Yes."

"Is it your observation that acknowledged murderers are usually possessed of the lofty motives and high sense of justice which you claim have actuated you?"

"I--"