“Mrs. Weston,” said Cotterell at last.
“That’s a lie, anyhow,” burst out one of the bystanders.
“It is not a lie, it is the truth,” said Cotterell hotly.
“Wal, now, see hyar. I was over to ole man Weston’s, an’ I seed Mis’ Weston myself, an’ she tole me she hadn’t sot eyes on yer. Now then?”
It was Owen who spoke, he had been out, as we know, on the first hunting-party and was now present as a spectator. He would have been on the jury, only it was considered more delicate for him to stand aside, considering that he had been out to catch Cotterell, and prairie men are punctilious in the observance of all those forms of etiquette with which they are familiar. Although not on the jury, Owen was quite free to intervene in the trial, he was one of the foremost settlers on the prairie. Cotterell looked hard at him as he spoke.
“Did she tell you that herself?” he asked, drawing his eyebrows tightly together.
“Yes, she tole me herself,” replied Owen.
“Then I have nothing further to say,” said Cotterell, setting his teeth grimly under his moustache. He realised very clearly what he was doing, he was throwing away his last chance of life; but his resolution never wavered for a moment. The thought flashed through his mind that most people would think him a fool to act as he did, risk the certainty of death for the sake of a fantastic loyalty to a woman who could never be to him anything but the distant friend another man’s wife should be. Then came the recollection that no one, not even she for whom he was sacrificing his life, would ever know what he had done. There was something fantastic surely in all this. Their whole acquaintance had been fantastic in a sense: Mr. Perseus was a fancy, but how dangerously sweet it had been while it lasted. And now it was over, he would never hear the sound of her voice again nor feel the touch of her little hand. Poor child! He could well imagine, with that jealous husband of hers, how she might have been driven to save herself from his anger by declaring she had never seen him. Jealousy was a monster surely, if there ever was a monster on this earth. Cotterell almost smiled to himself as he thought how once again he would act the part of Perseus to the unhappy one and save her by his silence from the monster’s fangs. Thoughts such as these swept through his mind as he stood facing the jury, while they were somewhat nonplussed as to their future proceedings owing to his determination not to say anything further. It appeared almost indecent to hang a man who would not argue out the points with them: they had never met such a one before.
“There’s a gal hyar a-wantin’ ter come in,” said one of the men who was standing just outside the door.
“Keep her hout,” said one of the jury. “We hain’t agoin’ ter hev any women a screech-owlin’ hyar. It’s one o’ his gals as he’s lef’ to die maybe of a broken heart ’thout the satisfaction o’ bein’ a widder.”