Give him a fair trial, and then—then—”
“He’s had a fair trial,” calls one from the crowd, who seems to speak from instigation; “Ne’er a doubt about his being guilty.
It’s him that’s killed your brother, and nobody else.
And it don’t look well, Miss Poindexter—excuse me for saying it;—but it don’t look just the thing, that you should be trying to screen him from his deserving.”
“No, that it don’t,” chime in several voices.
“Justice must take its course!” shouts one, in the hackneyed phrase of the law courts.
“It must!—it must!” echoes the chorus.
“We are sorry to disoblige you, miss; but we must request you to leave.
Mr Poindexter, you’d do well to take your daughter away.”
“Come, Loo! ’Tis not the place You must come away.
You refuse!
Good God! my daughter; do you mean to disobey me?
Here, Cash; take hold of her arm, and conduct her from the spot.
If you refuse to go willingly, we must use force, Loo.
A good girl now.
Do as I tell you.
Go! Go!”
“No, father, I will not—I shall not—till you have promised—till these men promise—”
“We can’t promise you anything, miss—however much we might like it.
It ain’t a question for women, no how.
There’s been a crime committed—a murder, as ye yourself know.
There must be no cheating of justice.
There’s no mercy for a murderer!” “No mercy!” echo a score of angry voices.
“Let him be hanged—hanged—hanged!”
The Regulators are no longer restrained by the fair presence.
Perhaps it has but hastened the fatal moment.
The soul of Cassius Calhoun is not the only one in that crowd stirred by the spirit of envy.
The horse hunter is now hated for his supposed good fortune. In the tumult of revengeful passion, all gallantry is forgotten,—that very virtue for which the Texan is distinguished.
The lady is led aside—dragged rather than led—by her cousin, and at the command of her father.
She struggles in the hated arms that hold her—wildly weeping, loudly protesting against the act of inhumanity.
“Monsters! murderers!” are the phrases that fall from her lips.
Her struggles are resisted; her speeches unheeded.
She is borne back beyond the confines of the crowd—beyond the hope of giving help to him, for whom she is willing to lay down her life!
Bitter are the speeches Calhoun is constrained to hear—heartbreaking the words now showered upon him.
Better for him he had not taken hold of her. It scarce consoles him—that certainty of revenge.
His rival will soon be no more; but what matters it? The fair form writhing in his grasp can never be consentingly embraced.
He may kill the hero of her heart, but not conquer for himself its most feeble affection!
Chapter Sixty Five. Still another Interlude.
For a third time is the tableau reconstructed—spectators and actors in the dread drama taking their places as before.
The lazo is once more passed over the limb; the same two scoundrels taking hold of its loose end—this time drawing it towards them till it becomes taut.
For the third time arises the reflection:
“Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!”
Now nearer than ever does the unfortunate man seem to his end.
Even love has proved powerless to save him!
Wha power on earth can be appealed to after this? None likely to avail.
But there appears no chance of succour—no time for it.
There is no mercy in the stern looks of the Regulators—only impatience.
The hangmen, too, appear in a hurry—as if they were in dread of another interruption.
They manipulate the rope with the ability of experienced executioners.
The physiognomy of either would give colour to the assumption, that they had been accustomed to the calling.