CHAPTER XXI.
THE TRIAL.
At last, the Circuit Court met. Three or four days were consumed with other business, and the case of the State against Xerxes Comston was called.
“Are you ready for trial?” asked the Judge.
“Ready,” replied the Prosecutor.
“Ready,” promptly answered the Counsel for the defence, to the surprise of every one. For obvious reasons, it is generally the practice to postpone murder cases as long as possible.
“Proceed then,” said His Honor.
The impanelling of the Jury was the first step to be taken. This was quickly done, too, for, to general surprise, Mr. Greenlee, who had undertaken to defend Comston, offered no objection to any juror, if he only had a fair measure of common sense. He did not, evidently, care for the character of the jury, and did not appear to manifest the least uneasiness or anxiety. He was calm and collected, as though he had no fears as to the final result. People looked at him in astonishment, but the lawyer paid no attention to their amazement. Blicker cast suspicious glances at him. Clara was sitting in the bar near her husband, seemingly in deep distress. But when she occasionally looked at Greenlee’s calm face, her hope revived. Ernest was also present, and did not seem to be anxious. Greenlee, instead of trying to retard the progress of the case, manifested a willingness to hasten it forward. His whole manner was surprising to the District Attorney, who was under the impression that a verdict of condemnation must be the inevitable result.
At length, the indictment was read, and then followed the examination of witnesses. The first was Blicker, who stated the circumstances that were favorable to his own case, with which the reader is acquainted. The two men were then introduced who had seen Comston dragging the dead man under the trees. They also stated the language which the criminal had employed. This united testimony appeared to be conclusive. The spectators, who were generally in sympathy with the accused, looked solemn. All had hoped that the trial itself would develop something that would be favorable to Comston. No one wanted him punished. But how could he escape in the face of such overwhelming evidence?
A long-drawn sigh was heard at Comston’s side. It came from Clara, who seemed suddenly to give way to despair. Again, she turned her head, and looked at Ernest. Could she be mistaken? Was there not a perceptible smile upon his face? She then glanced at Greenlee. His countenance wore the same serene, imperturbable expression. There was a short pause in the proceedings when the Prosecutor said:
“We have no more witnesses. I do not know,” he continued with an air of triumph, “why Mr. Greenlee foregoes his privilege of cross-examining the witnesses for the State. He can do so yet, if he wishes. I would prefer that he should do it.”
“Their testimony,” replied Greenlee, “can go to the jury for what it is worth.”
“Do you mean to insinuate that it is worth nothing?” asked the District Attorney.
“Has the counsel for the defense,” interrupted His Honor, “no witnesses?”
Every one expected to hear a sorrowful “no.” But what was the universal astonishment and joy, when Greenlee quietly replied:
“We have one.”
Then mouths and eyes were opened with curiosity. The spectators seemed to hold their breath lest they should lose the name of the unexpected witness, or as if the only chance for Comston had wings, and might be frightened away by heavy respiration. Comston and Clara looked up, leaned forward, and subjected Greenlee’s tranquil face to a quick, close search.
“Call your witness,” said the Court.
“Let Rev. Mr. Edgefield be sworn,” said Greenlee mildly and quietly.
Ernest rose from his chair, and deliberately stepped to the Clerk’s desk, where he was sworn, and then placed himself in the witness’ seat. It was one of those strange, unexpected scenes, which sometimes occur in gloomy court-rooms, and which change the entire aspect of the case. Clara now understood that smile on the preacher’s face. Ernest knew all about it, she thought. And who, but God, had sent him? She was awe-struck by the thought, and felt as one who had just witnessed, or rather was about to witness, a miracle. Comston had similar feelings. Both could have cast themselves upon the floor, and kissed the witness’ feet. What a friend he was! How good, and kind, and merciful was God, in raising up such a noble witness at the moment when it seemed that hope was about to wing a returnless flight! How both their hearts were melted to tenderness toward their Creator! for it was the firm conviction of both that God had sent His own messenger to see justice done. Ernest had not spoken a word, but they felt that his testimony, whatever it was, would be conclusive.
“Tell what you know about this case,” said Mr. Greenlee.
Ernest spoke in a firm, emphatic tone, that carried conviction to every heart:
“On the morning of the —— day, of ——, I rose earlier than usual. The day before I had remained with Comston, and kept him away from the saloon. He had promised to reform. But, I confess, I had little hope of any reformation, if he was left alone, and I determined to watch him another day; and this accounts for my early rising on that particular morning. I started toward the saloon, and when I had nearly reached there, I saw Comston coming out of his gate. I then concealed myself in the rear of the saloon, waiting for Comston to come, intending to persuade him to return home. When I had hidden myself, I heard two men quarreling inside, both of whose voices I instantly recognized. Presently, I heard Jones exclaim:
“‘I won’t stand it any longer.’
“Then I heard a rush over the floor. There was a scuffle for only a few seconds, and I heard Jones cry out:
“‘You have stabbed me—, you have killed me!’
“He employed some other words which I did not hear distinctly. Then I heard a body fall heavily to the floor, and all was still. A moment afterwards, I heard Comston enter the room, and beg for a drink, stating that he had no money. I heard the rattling of glasses; then there was silence. In a short time I heard Blicker say:
“‘I will give you another drink, if you will drag that drunken man under the tree.’
“‘I will do it’, said Comston. He seemed to be lifting the man, and I heard him exclaim:
“‘Jones is dead, ain’t he?’
“‘No,’ replied Blicker, ‘He is dead drunk; he fell on the bench, and cut himself, and he is bleeding.’
“I then heard a sound as of one man dragging another over the floor. At this moment I heard footsteps approaching and I left.”
“That is the God’s truth!” cried Comston in a voice trembling with emotion.
“Silence!” cried the Sheriff.
Clara could scarcely restrain her deeply agitated feelings. How she wanted to fall on her knees, and thank Ernest for this strange interference. The District Attorney was astounded. Blicker, as pale as death, had started out of the room at a rapid pace.
“Sheriff!” exclaimed the Judge, “arrest Mr. Blicker, if you please.”
“I am not running,” said Blicker, who suddenly seemed to recollect that flight was an evidence of guilt. “I was only changing my seat. That preacher has made up that lie.”
“How came you never to have said anything about this before?” said the District Attorney angrily, turning to Ernest, “Why did you not give in this testimony in the committing court, and save the expense and trouble of this trial?”
“I had a very good reason for it,” said Ernest, “I was anxious for the reformation of Mr. Comston, and I believed that nothing but imprisonment for several months would ever cure him of his evil habits. Surely, the salvation of a human soul is worth the few dollars that it may cost the county.”
“You have pursued a very strange course, it seems to me,” said the District Attorney. “Suppose you had taken sick and died before the trial came off, you would have left your friend in a sad predicament.”
“Not at all, sir,” replied Ernest. “I made provision for contingencies of that sort. You may ask Mr. Greenlee.”
“I will state,” said Mr. Greenlee, “that a few days after this killing, Mr. Edgefield made his deposition to the facts he has just stated, and signed it in the presence of two witnesses. However, that is perfectly irrelevant. We have no use whatever for the deposition.”
“Will your Honor permit such a proceeding as this?” asked the District Attorney.
“Certainly,” answered the Court, “Mr. Edgefield was never summoned as a witness in the committing court.”
“But still,” said the District Attorney, “ought he not to have appeared anyhow?”
“Mr. Edgefield,” said the Court, “has given his reason for not doing so. The jury can take his testimony for what it is worth.”
The jury, at once, retired, but they returned in about ten minutes, and moved slowly up to the Judge’s stand.
“Are you agreed, gentlemen?” said the Court.
“We are,” replied the foreman. The Clerk then took a paper from the hands of the foreman, and read the following in substance:
“We, the jury in the case of the State against Xerxes Comston, find that the defendant is not guilty.”
Immediately there was a great shout which shook the building.
“Silence! silence!” cried the Sheriff; but he might as well have spoken to a cyclone. Nothing could be heard but shouts of gladness, thus showing what a deep interest the public had felt in this trial. Comston rose from his seat and tottered toward Ernest, around whose neck he threw his arms, and wept like a child.
Clara exclaimed aloud:
“Praised be God! I shall serve Him the remainder of my days.”
There were few dry eyes in the room. It resembled some of the scenes of an old-fashioned camp-meeting. The crowd looked at Ernest with a species of awe. They could not have felt more reverence if Abraham himself had come back from the dead and testified in the case.
Comston and his wife immediately left the court-room amid the plaudits of the crowd that the terror of the law could not control.
Within two days, Comston had obtained a position as clerk in a store, and soon began to prosper.
The next time that Ernest called, both gave him such a joyful and grateful greeting that he felt compensated for all the trouble and inconvenience to which he had been subjected. After conversing a while, Ernest said:
“Surely, you now see the hand of God in your affairs?”
“Yes,” replied Comston, “and I am a different man, and, by God’s grace, intend to lead a different life.”
“And what has Mrs. Comston to say?” asked Ernest with a smile.
“I am perfectly overwhelmed,” she answered. “I feel as one in a dream, and you appear to me as our guardian angel. God must have sent you here.”
“I hope so, my friends,” replied Ernest, “but give all the glory to God. I am only an humble instrument in His hands. But,” he added after a short pause, “you will now both join the church, will you not, and lead Christian lives?”
“I will,” answered Comston emphatically. “I’ve not forgotten my vow.”
“And so will I,” replied Clara.
“What church will you join? I do not believe I have ever asked you.”
“The Presbyterian—your church,” answered Comston. “I like its comforting doctrines. They are certainly the right thing when one is in trouble. I’ve heard some people talk very hard about the eternal decrees, but, as you told me, the doctrine of election is taught in the Bible, and I find it there.”
“A few months ago,” said Clara, “I had an abhorrence of predestination, but now I have no doubt that it is a doctrine of God’s Book. If it is not taught in the 8th and 9th chapters of Romans, I cannot understand language. So I can be nothing but a Presbyterian.”
Accordingly, the next Sabbath both were received into the church of their choice. Ernest never had more faithful, zealous members, and more staunch friends. If Comston heard any one complaining in regard to Ernest, or any thing he did, it made him impatient, and he defended his beloved pastor and friend, with unlimited warmth of feeling. God prospered him in business, and in a few years Comston had a store of his own. He became a liberal and cheerful supporter of the Church and all its institutions. Clara contracted habits of economy and diligence, and was foremost in all church work, such as ladies could perform. We close the chapter with the remark that Blicker was tried for murder, and condemned to the penitentiary for the period of his natural life.
