Not only was the execution suspended, but all other proceedings that regarded the condemned captive.
Nor was the change of a comical character.
On the contrary, it was accompanied by looks of alarm, and cries of consternation!
The Regulators rushed to their arms—some towards their horses.
“Indians!” was the exclamation upon every lip, though unheard through the din.
Nought but the coming of Comanches could have caused such a commotion—threatening to result in a stampede of the troop!
For a time men ran shouting over the little lawn, or stood silent with scared countenances.
Most having secured their horses, cowered behind them—using them by way of shield against the chances of an Indian arrow.
There were but few upon the ground accustomed to such prairie escapades; and the fears of the many were exaggerated by their inexperience to the extreme of terror.
It continued, till their steeds, all caught up, had ceased their wild whighering; and only one was heard—the wretched creature that had given them the cue.
Then was discovered the true cause of the alarm; as also that the Connemara man had stolen off.
Fortunate for Phelim he had shown the good sense to betake himself to the bushes.
Only by concealment had he saved his skin: for his life was now worth scarce so much as that of his master.
A score of rifles were clutched with angry energy,—their muzzles brought to bear upon the old mare.
But before any of them could be discharged, a man standing near threw his lazo around her neck, and choked her into silence.
Tranquillity is restored, and along with it a resumption of the deadly design.
The Regulators are still in the same temper.
The ludicrous incident, whilst perplexing, has not provoked their mirth; but the contrary.
Some feel shame at the sorry figure they have cut, in the face of a false alarm; while others are chafed at the interruption of the solemn ceremonial.
They return to it with increased vindictiveness—as proved by their oaths, and angry exclamations.
Once more the vengeful circle closes around the condemned—the terrible tableau is reconstructed.
Once more the ruffians lay hold of the rope; and for the second time every one is impressed with the solemn thought:
“Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!”
Thank heaven, there is another interruption to that stern ceremonial of death.
How unlike to death is that bright form flitting under the shadows,—flashing out into the open sunlight.
“A woman! a beautiful woman!”
’Tis only a silent thought; for no one essays to speak.
They stand rigid as ever, but with strangely altered looks.
Even the rudest of them respect the presence of that fair intruder.
There is submission in their attitude, as if from a consciousness of guilt.
Like a meteor she pauses through their midst—glides on without giving a glance on either side—without speech, without halt—till she stoops over the condemned man, still lying gagged the grass.
With a quick clutch she lays hold of the lazo; which the two hangmen, taken by surprise, have let loose. Grasping it with both her hands, she jerks it from theirs.
“Texans! cowards!” she cries, casting a scornful look upon the crowd. “Shame! shame!”
They cower under the stinging reproach.
She continues:— “A trial indeed! A fair trial!
The accused without counsel—condemned without being heard!
And this you call justice?
Texan justice?
My scorn upon you—not men, but murderers!”
“What means this?” shouts Poindexter, rushing up, and seizing his daughter by the arm. “You are mad—Loo—mad!
How come you to be here?
Did I not tell you to go home?
Away—this instant away; and do not interfere with what does not concern you!”
“Father, it does concern me!”
“How?—how?—oh true—as a sister!
This man is the murderer of your brother.”
“I will not—cannot believe it.
Never—never!
There was no motive.
O men! if you be men, do not act like savages.