He spent more than an hour conversing gently with his wife and grand-daughter, striving to give them consolation rather than hope; for, from the first, he had believed and expressed a belief that the trial would go against him. With no faith in his counsel, and no evidence to sustain his innocence, how could he doubt it? Perhaps this very conviction created that holy composure, which seemed so remarkable in a man just to be placed on a trial of life and death.
When the officers came to conduct him to the City Hall he followed them calmly, solemnly, as a good man might have gone up to a place of worship. It was a bright, frosty morning, and he had been some weeks in prison. Still his heart must have been wonderfully at ease when the clear air, and the busy life around could thus kindle up his eye and irradiate his face. A crowd gathered around the prison to see the old murderer come forth, but the people were disappointed. Instead of a fierce haggard being, wild with the terrors of his situation, ready to dart away through any opening like a wild animal from its keepers, they saw only a meek old man, neatly clad, and walking quietly between the officers with neither the bravado or the abject humility of guilt. The fresh air did him good; you could see that in his face, and so grateful was he for this little blessing, that he almost forgot the gaze and wonder of the crowd.
"This is very beautiful," he observed to one of the officers, and the man stared to see how simple and unaffected was this expression of enjoyment. "Had I never been in prison, how could I have relished a morning like this?"
"You expect to be acquitted?" answered the man, unable to account for this strange composure in any other way.
"No," replied the old man, a little sadly—"no, I think they will find me guilty—I am almost sure they will!"
"You take it calmly, upon my honor—very calmly!" exclaimed the man. "Have you made up your mind, then, to plead guilty at once?"
"No, that would be false—they must do it—I will not help them. All in my power I must do to prevent the crime they will commit in condemning me. Not to do that would be suicide!"
There was something in this reply that struck the officer more than a thousand protestations could have done. Indeed the entire bearing of his charge surprised him not a little. Seldom had he conducted a man to trial that walked with so firm a step, or spoke so calmly.