Is he about to unburden his conscience of the weight that must be on it?
The spectators, guessing his intention, stand breathlessly observing him.
There is silence even among the cicadas.
It is broken by the formalised interrogatory of the judge?
“Have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon you?”
“No!” he replies, “I have not.
The jury has given a just verdict.
I acknowledge that I have forfeited my life, and deserve to lose it.”
Not during all the day—despite its many strange incidents and startling surprises—have the spectators been so astonished.
They are confounded beyond the power of speech; and in silence permit the condemned man to proceed, with what they now perceive to be his confession.
“It is quite true,” continues he, “that I killed Henry Poindexter—shot him dead in the chapparal.”
The declaration is answered by a cry from the crowd.
It is altogether involuntary, and expresses horror rather than indignation.
Alike involuntary is the groan that goes with it—proceeding from a single individual, whom all know to be the father of the murdered man—once more in their midst.
Beyond these sounds, soon ceasing, there is nothing to hinder the confession from being continued.
“I know that I’ve got to die,” proceeds the prisoner, with an air of seeming recklessness. “You have decreed it; and I can tell by your looks you have no intention to change your minds.
“After what I’ve confessed, it would be folly in me to expect pardon; and I don’t.
I’ve been a bad fellow; and no doubt have done enough to deserve my fate.
But, bad as I may have been, I’m not vile enough to be sent out of the world, and leave behind me the horrid imputation of having murdered my own cousin.
I did take his life, as I’ve told you.
You are all asking why, and conjecturing about the motive.
There was none.”
A new “sensation” makes itself manifest among the spectators. It partakes of surprise, curiosity, and incredulity.
No one speaks, or in any way attempts interruption.
“You wonder at that.
It’s easily explained. I killed him by mistake!”
The surprise culminates in a shout; suppressed as the speaker proceeds.
“Yes, by mistake; and God knows I was sorry enough, on discovering that I had made it.
I didn’t know myself till long after.”
The condemned man looks up, as if in hopes that he has touched a chord of mercy.
There is no sign of it, on the faces that surround him—still solemnly austere.
“I don’t deny,” continues he; “I needn’t—that I intended to kill some one.
I did. Nor am I going to deny who it was.
It was the cur I see standing before me.”
In a glance of concentrated hatred, the speaker rests his eye upon Gerald; who only answers with a look, so calm as almost to betray indifference.
“Yes. I intended to kill him.
I had my reasons. I’m not going to say what they were.
It’s no use now.
“I thought I had killed him; but, as hell’s luck would have it, the Irish hound had changed cloaks with my cousin.
“You know the rest.
By mistake I fired the shot—meant for an enemy, and fatal to a friend.
It was sure enough; and poor Henry dropped from his horse.
But to make more sure, I drew out my knife; and the cursed serape still deceiving me, I hacked off his head.”
The “sensation” again expresses itself in shuddering and shouts—the latter prolonged into cries of retribution—mingled with that murmuring which proclaims a story told.
There is no more mystery, either about the murder or its motive; and the prisoner is spared further description of that fiendish deed, that left the dead body of Henry Poindexter without a head.
“Now!” cries he, as the shouting subsides, and the spectators stand glaring upon him, “you know all that’s passed; but not what’s to come. There’s another scene yet.
You see me standing on my grave; but I don’t go into it, till I’ve sent him to his. I don’t, by God!”
There is no need to guess at the meaning of this profane speech—the last of Calhoun’s life.
Its meaning is made clear by the act that accompanies it.
While speaking he has kept his right hand under the left breast of his coat. Along with the oath it comes forth, holding a revolver.