I went to town every day, and every night I returned, self-charged with hope; and now the trial was at hand. When the work of impaneling the jury was begun, old Conkwright was there with his challenges. How shrewd he was, how sharp were his eyes. And when night came the panel was far from complete.

“It will take a long time at this rate,” I said, as we were leaving the court-room.

“I don’t care if it takes a thousand years; they sha’n’t ring in a stuffed toad on me,” replied the ex-judge. “Did you notice that fellow with a long neck? They’ve fixed him all right and I knew it. I am not altogether easy about that short fellow we’ve got, but I hope he is man enough to be honest. There is no more trickery anywhere than there is in a murder trial in this country. Well, they’ve put their worst men forward, and I think we shall have better material to-morrow.”

And it appeared that we had, for the jury was sworn in the next afternoon. The testimony was so short and so direct, the witnesses were so few that the trial could not last long; and when at home I gave this as an opinion, the old people were glad, for they declared that it shortened the time of their son’s absence. On the day set for the opening of the argument hundreds of the farmers gave over their work and rode to town, for the Southerner loves a passionate speech, and the court-house is still his theater.

The old man walked down the road with me, but he stopped before we reached the place where Stuart had been stretched upon the ground.

“Well,” he said, turning back, “I reckon to-day’ll finish it. At least they’ll give it to the jury and it oughten’t to take ’em long after what the judge says in his charge to ’em. I feel that it’s goin’ to be all right. Don’t you?”

The truth was that I did not, but kindness is not always the truth; so I said: “Everything looks that way. Conkwright is as sharp as a thorn and he’ll be in their flesh from the beginning to the end.”

“By jings, jest say that again. That ought to settle it right now, hah? Stay with ’em till they git through, and you’ll find us waitin’ for you when you git back.”

I nodded, waved my hand at him and galloped away, and from a hill-top I looked back and saw him still standing there in the road. Parker caught up with me and we in turn overtook a man whom I did not care to encounter Etheredge. I had seen him every day during the trial, had caught his blurred eye as I was giving my testimony on the stand, had heard him tell his damaging story.

“Ho, there,” he said, as I was about to pass him. “Haven’t forgotten me, have you?”

“My memory is unfortunately so good that it retains many objectionable things,” I answered.

“Glad to hear it; pleased to know that you haven’t forgotten our little engagement.”

He rode along with me. The way was just broad enough for two horses abreast, and the deputy dropped back. “We need not wait for the termination of the trial,” I replied.

“That so? Strikes me that you are pretty keen, especially as there is an officer right behind you. Say, you seem to blame me for the interest I am taking in this affair. Have you stopped to think of the interest you are taking in it? Jucklin’s no relation of yours and probably never will be. Did you hear what I said? Probably never will be.”

“Unfortunately I haven’t an apple tree sprout with me to-day, Mr. Etheredge.”

“And it’s a good thing for you that you haven’t. Do you reckon I’d let you lash at me while so many people are riding along the road?”

“I don’t suppose you would let me do so at any time if you could help yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Might let you amuse yourself if there were no one in sight. But I’ve got nothing against you, young man. I’ve lived long enough to forgive an over-grown boy’s impulses.”

He could not have cut me deeper; and his sleepy old eyes saw the blood and he laughed. “Got under your hide a little that time, eh? We’ve all got a thin place somewhere in our skin, you know. You needn’t look back; the officer is right behind us.”

“I wish he were not in sight,” I replied.

“You don’t like him, eh? Why, I always thought, he was a pretty good fellow. But, of course, I am willing to accept your judgment of him. But if you don’t like him why do you wait for him to come up?”

“I am waiting for you to go on, sir,” I replied. “And if you don’t I will knock you off that horse.”

“Very well. I see a man on ahead who is doubtless better company. I trust, though, that I shall have the pleasure of a closer association with you at some future time. Good-morning.”

I waited until Parker came up. “Did you get enough of him?” he asked, laughing. “I knew you would nearly everybody does. Under the circumstances it was an insult for him to offer to ride with you.”

“And he and I will have a trouble as soon as this one is settled,” I replied.

“Oh, I reckon not. I don’t see why any man of sense should want to have trouble with you. Just look how they are flocking to town. Hope they’ll turn out this way and vote for me at the next election for sheriff. Women, too. See them coming out of that gate?”

When we rode into the town the streets were thronged and horsemen, wagons and buggies were thick on the public square. The ginger cake and cider vender was there, with his stand near the court-house steps, and the neigh of the colt and the distressful answer of his mother, tied to the rack, echoed throughout the town. Dogs, meeting one another for the first time, decided in their knowing way that they were enemies, but suddenly became allies in a yelping chase after one of their kind that came down the street with a tin can tied to his tail.

I went at once to Conkwright’s office and found him with his feet on a table, contentedly smoking a cob pipe.

“I was just thinking over some points that I want to make,” he remarked as I entered.

“And I hope, sir, that you are in the proper humor to make them.”

“Can’t tell about that. Oratory is as stealthy and as illusive as a weazel at night. You never know when he’s coming.”

“But do you feel well?” I anxiously inquired.

“Oh, feel first-rate, but that doesn’t make any particular difference. Sometimes a man may think that he feels well, but when he gets up to speak he finds that he is simply sluggish. Reckon I’ll get through all right. Do the best I can, any way, and if I fail it can’t be helped. Guess we’d better go over.”

An anxious day that was for me. I looked at Alf, now beginning to grow pale under his imprisonment, and I saw his resentment rise and fall as the state’s attorney pictured him, waiting, listening with eagerness for the sound of a horse’s hoofs. I was to be a lawyer, to defend men and to prosecute them for money, and yet I wondered how that bright young fellow, with the seeming passion of an honest outcry, could stand there and tell the jury that my friend had committed the foulest murder that had ever reddened the criminal annals of his state. Old man Conkwright sat, twirling his thumbs, and occasionally he would nod at the jurymen as if to call their attention to a rank absurdity. But I did not see how he could offset the evidence and the blazing sentences of that impassioned prosecutor. At last Conkwright’s time had come, and when he arose and uttered his first word I felt the chill of a disappointment creeping over me. He was slow and his utterance was as cold as if it had issued from a frost-bitten mouth. I went out and walked round the town, to the livery-stable, where a negro was humming a tune as he washed a horse’s back; to the drug-store, where a doctor was dressing a brick-bat wound in a drunken man’s scalp I walked out to the edge of the town, where the farming land lay, and then I turned back. I was thinking of my return home, of the sorrow that I should take with me, of those old people of Guinea.

Some one called me, and facing about I recognized the telegraph operator coming across a lot. “Glad to see you,” he said, coming up and holding out his hand. “Didn’t hear about her, did you?”

“Hear about whom?” I asked, not pleased that he should have broken in upon my sorrowful meditation.

“Mrs. McHenry.”

“No, I’ve heard nothing. What about her?”

“Why, there’s everything about her. She’s my wife married night before last. Know that piece of calico I pointed out that day, the time I said I had to be mighty careful? Well, she’s it. I’ll walk on up with you. Run it down run in panting, you might say. Said I had to have her and she shied at first, but that didn’t make any difference, for I was there three times a day till she saw it wasn’t any use to shy any longer; so she gave in and I caught the first preacher that happened to be hanging around and he soon pronounced us one and the same kind something of the same sort. Go right down that street and you’ll see calico on my clothes line most any time. Say, it will be a pity if they hang that young fellow. And I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If they send anything off to any of the newspapers I’ll spell his name wrong. Get even with them some way, won’t we? Yonder comes my boy and I reckon there’s a call for me at the office. They are rushing me now seems to be the busy season. I’ve been to the office twice already to-day.”

Long before I reached the court-house I heard old Conkwright bellowing at the jury. The windows were full of people and outside men were standing upon boxes, straining to see the old fellow in his mighty tirade. I could not get into the room, but I squeezed my way to the door and stood there, with my blood leaping. Now I could see why they had called him powerful. His face was aglow, his gray hair was upon end and his eyes were shooting darts at the jury. I know not how long he spoke, but I know that suddenly he was silent, looking upward, and then, spreading his hands over the jury, said: “May God in his infinite mercy influence your decision.” He sat down, and I noticed then that the air was cooler with a breeze that sprang up when the sun had set. The state’s attorney made a few remarks, and then the judge delivered his charge to the jury, an address short, but earnest. Now there was a shoving and a crush the jurymen were filing out. I saw them leading Alf back to the jail, but I did not go to him, so pulled and hauled I was by hope and fear. But I made my way to the old lawyer, and asked him what he thought.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Don’t you see the disposition there is to rush everything? I don’t think they will be out long.”

“You made a great speech, sir.”

“Wasn’t bad, considering the material. We were at a disadvantage. He stood there in the road, you know, and that is a hard thing to get round.”

“But the judge must have felt your speech.”

“Why, my son, I don’t suppose he heard it.”

I went away and again I walked about the town. It was dusk and the tavern bell was ringing. On the court-house steps and on the public square men were discussing the trial and venturing their opinions as to the result. I heard one man say: “The old soldier made a great fight, but the odds were against him. Bet ten dollars they find him guilty.”

“There’s his friend over there,” another man spoke up. “Don’t talk so loud.”

“Can’t help who’s there listening; money’s here talkin’. Any takers?”

Not far away there was a wooden bridge over a small stream and thither I went and leaned upon the rail, listening to the murmur of the water. I thought that this must be the brook that rippled past our house, and I went down to the water’s edge and bathed my aching head. Then I remembered that I had eaten nothing since early morning, and I thought that I would better go to the tavern, and was turning away when I heard some one cry: “The jury is in and court has met again!” I scrambled up and hastened toward the court-house, and at the steps I met a number of men coming out. “It’s all over,” one of them said to me. “Imprisonment for life. Conkwright has moved for a new trial and the judge has granted it.”

I hastened to the jail, whither they had taken Alf. I found him seated on his bed. He got up when he saw me.

“Bill,” he said, in a voice low and steady, “I am not going to the penitentiary if you are my friend.”

“And you know that I am, Alf.”

“Then you will lend me your knife.”

“No, Alf, I can’t do that not now. Remember that we have another chance.”

“I don’t mean now I mean if that last chance fails. Now I want you to do something for me. You tell father that he must sell his farm immediately and leave here. Tell him that I’ll hate him if he doesn’t do as I say. You can stay here and write to him, and if I don’t come out at the next trial, all right, and if I do, I can go to him. It may seem hard, but he’s got to do it. He wouldn’t live here, any way. Will you do it?”

“I will, for I don’t know but it is a good plan. No, he wouldn’t live here. He will do as you request.”

“Well, go on home now and rest. Hanged if you don’t look as if you’ve been on trial for your life,” he added, laughing. “Tell him that I’m not crushed that it has come out better than I expected.”

The night was dark, the road was desolate, and I heard the lonesome lowing of the cattle. And now and then a horseman passed me, for I was not eager to get home. At a gate near the road-side some one was standing with a lantern, and just behind me came the rattle of an old vehicle. I turned aside to let it pass, and as I did the light of the lantern fell upon me and a voice asked: “That you, Mr. Hawes?”

“Yes,” I answered, turning back into the road and following a buggy.

“I ’lowed so,” said a man in the buggy, “for we don’t grow many of your size about here. I have heard that they used to, but they don’t now. Good many things have happened since that day you come over to see me about the school. I’m Perdue. And, by the way, there’s a hundred dollars at my house waitin’ for you, and if you don’t come after it I’ll send it over.”

“But you don’t owe me anything yet,” I replied.

“Yes, the money’s there and it’s yourn. You couldn’t help not bein’ in a fix to teach. As I say, it’s there for you, and you might as well have it. Sorry for the old folks, tell ’em, but it can’t be helped.”

On he drove, shouting back that he would send the money the next day, and my protest, if, indeed, I entered one, was weak and faltering, for of all men in that neighborhood I thought that I stood most in need of a hundred dollars.

Now I was nearing the house. The hour was late, but a light was burning in the sitting-room. No one came out, though my horse’s hoofs fell hard enough upon the stones to tell them of my coming; and when I got down at the gate I found a horse tied to the fence. Some person, eager to bear evil tidings, had forestalled me. I led my horse to the stable, went to the house, and had just stepped into the passage when Parker, the deputy sheriff, came out of the sitting-room. “I thought you’d go on back to the jail to stay a while, so I came on over to tell them. No trouble, you know only a short distance out of my way.”

All within was silent. I stepped inside. The old man was standing with his back to the fire-place; the old woman sat with her book in her lap and Guinea stood at the window, looking out into the darkness. I sat down in silence, for I knew not what to say, and in silence for a time we remained. The old woman sobbed, clutching more tightly her book, and the old man looked at her sharply and then almost flung himself out of the room. And a few moments later I heard him shouting: “Hike, there, Sam! Hike, there, Bob! There’s plenty of light; you’ve got three lanterns. Hike, there! To a finish, to a finish!”

“Mrs. Jucklin, it is no time for despair,” I said, and Guinea turned from the window. “We have already secured a new trial, and the next time it will surely go in our favor. That is the history of nearly all such cases. Be strong just a little while longer. You have been our prop, and now you must not let us fall.”

She arose and with an old-time courtesy bowed to me, and Guinea came forward and held out her hand, and she must have seen a sudden light leap into my eyes, for she said: “I am Alf’s sister and yours, too.”

This came as a repulse to my heart’s eager yearning; no sister’s confidences could answer the call that my nature was shouting to her. But I gulped down a rising soreness of the heart and I said: “I thank you.”

The old man, with heavy tread, strode into the room. “It was to a finish,” he whispered. His hands were covered with blood. “It was to a finish, and they are both dead.”

There was a sharp rap at the door. Guinea opened it and in came the old General. “Mr. Jucklin, can I speak to you in private?” he asked, bowing to the women.

“No. What you’ve got to say, out with it here.”

“I would rather say it in private. Why, what’s the matter with your hands?”

“It was to a finish, sir, and let what you say be to a finish, even if it is three times as bloody.”

“Oh, I have come out of no hard feelings, sir. Ladies, would you and our friend, Mr. Hawes, mind retiring?”

“They are goin’ to stay here, sir,” the old man replied, rolling up his sleeves.

“All right, just as you will, sir. Mr. Jucklin, years ago we entered into an arrangement ”

“And I have cursed myself ever since!” the old man exclaimed.

“Just wait until I get through, if you please. We entered into an arrangement, prompted by a boy’s fancy and warmed by a father’s over indulgence. I know that this is a sore time to come to you, and I don’t want to appear unkind, for my aim is tender, though my determination is just. Young hearts may whisper to each other, and that whispering may be music, sir; but in this life there are duties too stern to be melted and turned aside by a melody. And, sir, one of the most sacred duties that can fall to the trust of a man is to see that the family name, which is to survive after he has folded his hands in eternal stillness pardon my devious methods, for I assure you that my windings proceed from a kindness of heart I say that my duty now is to those who may bear my name in the future. I trust that I am now sufficiently started to speak plainly. I don’t doubt the real worth and sterling integrity of your stock, Mr. Jucklin, but an agreement that we once made must be set aside.”

He stood with his broad hat in his hand and out of it he grabbled a handkerchief and wiped his face. Old Lim gazed steadily at him. “My words sound cold and formal,” the General continued, “and I wish that they might be warmer and more at ease, but in vain have I tempered with them. The short of it all is, and I have striven not to say it bluntly is that the engagement which has held us in prospective relationship is hereby broken; but by this I do not mean that your son is guilty of murder, for in his heart he may see himself justified, but a decision of court has and I wish I could find a softer means of saying it court has pronounced him guilty, and that places the marriage out of the question. Bear with me just a moment more, for I assure you that I am suffering keenly with you, that my heart is in sorrowful unison with your own. Family pride may be regarded a hobby in this day when refinement and respectability are sneered at, but it is a virtuous hobby, and I have held it so long that I cannot put it down. And now, in so far as there is any question of a financial obligation, we will turn our backs upon it and forget that it ever existed.”

He put his handkerchief into his hat, changed his hat to his other hand and stood looking at Jucklin; and I had expected to see the old man leap off the floor in a rage, but I cannot recall ever having seen a cooler show of indifference. “I put gaffs on ’em early this mornin’ an’ kept ‘em waitin’ for the finish, and when it come it come soon,” he said.

“Mr. Jucklin, I had hoped to make myself sufficiently clear. I have come, sir, to break the engagement that was foolishly arranged by us to bind your daughter and my son.”

“Bob died first, but Sam could jest stagger, and he fluttered against me and covered my hands with his blood; and I must apologize for not washin’ ’em, but it is not too late to make some sort of amends. I will wipe ’em on your jaws, sir!”

He sprang forward, but I caught him. “You must be perfectly cool and perfectly sensible, Mr. Jucklin,” I said, as quickly as I could, holding him. “Remember that he is in your house.”

And this quieted him. Even the most pronounced backwoodsman in the South is sometimes graced with a sudden and almost marvelous courtesy, the unconscious revival of a long lost dignity; and this came upon the old man, and, bowing low, he said:

“I humbly beg your pardon, sir.”

“And I should be a brute not to grant it,” the General replied, bowing in turn. “But I hope that reason rather than the fact of my being under your roof will govern your conduct.”

During this time, and, indeed, from the moment when the General had entered the room, Guinea stood beside the rocking-chair in which her mother was seated; no change had come over her countenance, but with one hand resting on the back of the chair she had remained motionless, with the exception that she placed her hand on her mother’s head at the moment when I caught the old man in my arms. I saw this, though her motion was swift, for I was looking at her rather than at her father. And now the General turned to the girl.

“My dear,” he said. She frowned slightly, but her lips parted with a cold smile that came out of her heart.

“My dear child, it is hard for me to say this to you, for I feel that you can but regard me a feelingless monster that would rend an innocent and loving heart, and God knows that I now beg your forgiveness, but in this life cruel things must be done, done that those who come after us may feel no sting of reproach cast by an exacting society. I am an old man, my dear, and shall soon be taken to the burial ground where my fathers sleep in honor. They left me a proud name and I must not soil it. The oldest stone there is above a breast that braved old Cromwell’s pikemen the noble heart of a cavalier beat in that bosom and can you ask ”

“I have asked nothing, General.”

“You are a noble young woman.”

“But your son will come to me and kneel at my feet.”

A flush flew over the General’s face. “No, it is with his full consent that I have come. Indeed, I would have put off my coming until a more befitting day, but he knew his duty and bade me do mine.”

“He will kneel at my feet,” she said; and he had not replied when we heard footsteps in the passage wild footsteps. There was a moment of sharp clicking at the door latch, as if a nervous hand had touched it, and then Millie broke into the room. Her face was white, her hair hung about her shoulders.

“You have kept me away!” she cried, stamping her feet and frowning at her father. “Yes, you have kept me away, but I have come and I hate you.”

The old General was stupefied. “You may tell your cold-blooded son what to do,” she went on, “but my heart is my own. He asked me to marry him and I will I will break into the penitentiary and marry him. And you would have had me marry Dan Stuart. Just before he was killed he told me he would kill Alf if I said I loved him. I will go to the jail and marry him there.”

She ran to Guinea, and they put their arms about each other and wept; and the old woman pressed her book to her bosom and sobbed over it. Through old Lim’s wire-like beard a smile, hard and cynical, was creeping out, and the General was fiercely struggling with himself. He had bitten his lip until his mouth was reddening with blood.

“Come, you are going home with me,” he said.

“I am not!” his daughter cried, with her arms tight about Guinea. “I am not; I am going to the jail.”

“Then I will take you home.”

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, shrinking back into a corner. “Don’t touch me, for I am almost mad. What do I care for your pride? What do I care for the old graveyard? You have tried to break my heart, but I will marry him. He is worth ten thousand such men as your cold-blooded son. Don’t you touch me, father. Mr. Hawes!” she screamed, “don’t let him touch me.”

The old General had stepped forward as if to lay hands upon her, but he stepped back, bowed and said: “You are a lady and I am a gentleman, and these facts protect you from violence at my hands, but I here denounce you no, I don’t, my daughter. I cannot denounce my own flesh and blood. I will leave you here to-night, hoping that when this fit of passion is over reason will lead you home. Good-night.”