“Corsh: corsh: very proper to pleade ‘not guilty’. Reg’ler thing—we’d a’ hung ye anyway if yer hadn’t—fer’n example! As ’tish, we’ve gi’n you fair tri’l. Be there anything you wanter say, before thish court perceeds t’ ex’cute sentensh?”
Gard’s soul was in revolt.
“Hickey,” he said, speaking very slowly and distinctly, “This is murder you men are doing. You’ll know it when you are sober.”
As the lantern cast its light upon Hickey’s face it seemed to Gard that he looked startled. He realized, with a sick feeling of helplessness that the fellow’s participation in this deed was due solely to his condition. He even felt a sort of pity for the man when to-morrow’s awakening should bring the knowledge of what he had done. If he could but reach the real man buried in the addled brain.
“I did not kill Dan Lundy,” he insisted, still addressing Hickey; “You will know that some day. Killing me to-night will not be the end of it. Death ain’t such an awful thing that a man’s got to be afraid of it, beyond a certain point. We’ve all got to die some time; so it stands to reason it can’t be such a bad thing as we think. But if I do die to-night, you’ll be alive yet, to-morrow morning, Hickey, and what do you think you’ll do about it then?”
Hickey was staring at him, his jaw loosened, the lantern hanging in a listless hand.
“Aw, shut up,” interrupted Broome. “You’ve said all you got any call to say. We know there’s bin a mistake made, n’ we’re goin’ to fix it up right here. You savez?”
Gard ignored him, still looking at Hickey.
“Know Mrs. Hallard?” he asked, with the quiet of desperation. Since by no endurable possibility could he send a message where, alone, he longed to, he must at least get one word to Kate Hallard.
“Yesh;” was Hickey’s reply. “Know Missish Hallard. Mighty fine lady.”