Despite his inclinations towards her, he cannot help listening himself.
He suspects that a serious scene is there being enacted—a trial before Judge Lynch, with a jury of “Regulators.”
Excited talk comes echoing through the tree-trunks.
There is an earnestness in its accents that tells of some terrible determination.
Both listen; the lady like some tragic actress, by the side-scene of a theatre, waiting for her cue.
There are speeches in more than one voice; as if made by different men; then one longer than the rest—a harangue.
Louise recognises the voice.
It is that of her cousin Cassius. It is urgent—at times angry, at times argumentative: as if persuading his audience to something they are not willing to do.
His speech comes to an end; and immediately after it, there are quick sharp exclamations—cries of assent—one louder than the rest, of fearful import.
While listening, Yancey has forgotten the fair creature by his side.
He is reminded of her presence, by seeing her spring away from the spot, and, with a wild but resolute air, glide towards the jacale!
Chapter Sixty Three. A Jury of Regulators.
The cry, that had called the young Creole so suddenly from the side of her companion, was the verdict of a jury—in whose rude phrase was also included the pronouncing of the sentence.
The word “hang” was ringing in her ears, as she started away from the spot.
While pretending to take an interest in the play of the silver fish, her thoughts were upon that scene, of less gentle character, transpiring in front of the jacale.
Though the trees hindered her from having a view of the stage, she knew the actors that were on it; and could tell by their speeches how the play was progressing.
About the time of her dismounting, a tableau had been formed that merits a minute description.
The men, she had left behind, were no longer in scattered groups; but drawn together into a crowd, in shape roughly resembling the circumference of a circle.
Inside it, some half-score figures were conspicuous—among them the tall form of the Regulator Chief, with three or four of his “marshals.” Woodley Poindexter was there, and by his side Cassius Calhoun.
These no longer appeared to act with authority, but rather as spectators, or witnesses, in the judicial drama about being enacted. Such in reality was the nature of the scene.
It was a trial for Murder—a trial before Justice Lynch—this grim dignitary being typified in the person of the Regulator Chief—with a jury composed of all the people upon the ground—all except the prisoners.
Of these there are two—Maurice Gerald and his man Phelim.
They are inside the ring, both prostrate upon the grass; both fast bound in raw-hide ropes, that hinder them from moving hand or foot.
Even their tongues are not free.
Phelim has been cursed and scared into silence; while to his master speech is rendered impossible by a piece of stick fastened bitt-like between his teeth.
It has been done to prevent interruption by the insane ravings, that would otherwise issue from his lips.
Even the tight-drawn thongs cannot keep him in place.
Two men, one at each shoulder, with a third seated upon his knees, hold him to the ground.
His eyes alone are free to move; and these rolling in their sockets glare upon his guards with wild unnatural glances, fearful to encounter.
Only one of the prisoners is arraigned on the capital charge; the other is but doubtfully regarded as an accomplice.
The servant alone has been examined—asked to confess all he knows, and what he has to say for himself. It is no use putting questions to his master.
Phelim has told his tale—too strange to be credited; though the strangest part of it—that relating to his having seen a horseman without ahead—is looked upon as the least improbable!
He cannot explain it; and his story but strengthens the suspicion already aroused—that the spectral apparition is a part of the scheme of murder!
“All stuff his tales about tiger-fights and Indians!” say those to whom he has been imparting them. “A pack of lies, contrived to mislead us—nothing else.”
The trial has lasted scarce ten minutes; and yet the jury have come to their conclusion.
In the minds of most—already predisposed to it—there is a full conviction that Henry Poindexter is a dead man, and that Maurice Gerald is answerable for his death.
Every circumstance already known has been reconsidered; while to these have been added the new facts discovered at the jacale—the ugliest of which is the finding of the cloak and hat.
The explanations given by the Galwegian, confused and incongruous, carry no credit.
Why should they?
They are the inventions of an accomplice.
There are some who will scarce stay to hear them—some who impatiently cry out,
“Let the murderer be hanged!”
As if this verdict had been anticipated, a rope lies ready upon the ground, with a noose at its end.
It is only a lazo; but for the purpose Calcraft could not produce a more perfect piece of cord.
A sycamore standing near offers a horizontal limb—good enough for a gallows.
The vote is taken viva voce.
Eighty out of the hundred jurors express their opinion: that Maurice Gerald must die.
His hour appears to have come.
And yet the sentence is not carried into execution.
The rope is suffered to lie guileless on the grass. No one seems willing to lay hold of it!