“We most on us hearn what the nigger said,” remarked another carelessly, “some on us fooled roun’ with that yesterday an’ lost a fair half day’s work.”
“Wal, gen’lemen, you could ha’ had the nigger again here to-day, on’y it was not considered necessary, as we was mostly of opinion to fin’ a true bill on the horse-stealin’ count. We can send for the nigger. He’s mos’ likely sneakin’ roun’ here. Them niggers is jes’ like buzzards, they can scent out where there’s a hangin’,—ahem, gen’lemen, we’ll proceed,” said the foreman, suddenly recollecting himself and Olive’s presence barely in time.
“I vote for sending for the coloured man,” said the Illinois juror firmly. “We’ll confront him with the prisoner.”
“Nigger be damned!” roared the Arkansas man jumping violently off his nail-keg. “Yo’ reckon I’m agoin’ ter sit hyar an’ see a white man hanged on nigger evidence. No, sir. I won’t stan’ such a insult to my race as that. There be some things a man o’ honour won’t stan’ an’ that’s one o’ them. Thar hain’t no man spryer to light out an’ catch a hoss-thief nor I be, an’ I’ll do my dooty in the hangin’ too, an’ hol’ the rope as tight as ony o’ yo’all. But I’ll bust up afore I’ll take nigger evidence ’gin a white man. I reckon there hain’t none o’ yo’ gen’lemen as is pertikler sot on that nigger, be yer?”
Olive’s heart gave a bound of joy as the Arkansas juror poured forth his torrent of protest. Alas, poor Olive and her high-flown love of the black race! She was bound to confess that her best hope for effecting the end she was struggling for, lay in the blind race-prejudice of this ignorant Southerner.
“I guess we ought to take all the evidence, white or black, that bears on the case,” observed he of Illinois.
“If that thar nigger comes inter this hyar room to conten’ with this hyar jury an’ give his evidence, I’ll shoot him, ’fore he gits over that door-sill, so I will, by God, an’ no man as knows me ever said I went back o’ my word in shootin’.”
The Arkansas juror faced them with his black eyes ablaze and his dark visage twitching with suppressed fury. He was quivering under the sting of what was to him an intolerable insult, and there was nothing he would not do to wipe out that insult.
Olive looked at Cotterell for the first time, and as their eyes met he was horrified to see the white, drawn expression on her face. He attributed it to the very natural womanly fear that she might be involved in a promiscuous shooting affray in that crowded room.
“Don’t be alarmed, they will not bring the negro in here,” he said soothingly.