"I have just killed Dennis Rumpety," he said.
For ten seconds there was absolute silence; then a rough voice growled, "Thunder! But you done a good job!"
Upon that everybody began talking at once, and in the midst of the clamor Ed Rankin, the man who loved freedom better than life, was formally placed under arrest.
His trial came off the next day but one. The coroner's inquest had shown death by apoplexy, caused probably by a paroxysm of rage. The jury rendered a verdict of "involuntary manslaughter." The sentence was the lowest the law allows: namely, one day's imprisonment with hard labor.
This unlooked-for clemency staggered the prisoner. Oblivious of every fact but the terrible one that Dennis Rumpety had died by his hand, he had nerved himself for what he believed would be his death-blow. The tension had been too great; he could not bear its sudden removal.
"Say, your honor," he cried, regardless of court etiquette,—"say, your honor, couldn't you lay it on a little heavier?"
"The court sees no reason for altering its decision," his honor replied, gravely, passing on to the delivery of the next sentence.
But after the court had adjourned, the judge stepped up to the prisoner and said, kindly, "I wouldn't take it too hard, if I were you, Rankin. We all know that there was no murder in your heart."
"Yes, there was, your honor. Yes, there was."
"At any rate, the man's death was clearly not your deed. It was the hand of the Lord that did it."