The next morning there were the same eager, impatient crowds, but there were yet other preliminaries; the case must now be stated to the jury. And Eades, speaking solemnly, told the jury of the pursuit of Archie and the death of Kouka, all of which had been repeated many times. He spoke of the importance of government, of the sacredness of human life, how heinous a sin it is to kill people, and how important it was to put Archie to death immediately in order that this truth might be better understood, how serious were the juror's duties, how disagreeable his own duties, and so forth. Then he began to describe the murder of Margaret Flanagan, but Marriott objected. They wrangled over this for some time, and, indeed, until Eades, assured that the jurors had been sufficiently reminded of the Flanagan murder, felt satisfied. Then Marriott stated the case for the defense, and finally, that afternoon, the trial began in earnest.
Bentley, following his elaborate system of arrangement, bustled about with a deputy at hand so that he could command him, pushed back the crowd, locked the doors, and thereafter admitted no one unless he wished to. The spectators filled the space outside the bar, and encroached on the space within, forming a dense, closely-packed circle in the center of which were the jury, the lawyers at their tables, Archie and Danner, the reporters, the old stenographer, and Glassford looking down from the bench. The spectators in a strained, nervous silence stared into the pit where the game was to be played, the game for which Eades and Marriott were nerving themselves, the game that had Archie's life for its colossal stake.
But as the afternoon wore on, expectations were not realized; the interest flagged. It was seen that the sensations would not come for days, the proceedings were to move slowly and with a vast and pompous deliberation to their unrevealed climax. Eades called as witnesses several laborers who had been of the crowd that pursued Archie and Curly down the tracks that morning. After them came Weber, the coroner, a fleshy man with red face and neck, who described the inquest, then his official physician, Doctor Zimmerman, a young man with a pointed beard, who wore three chains on his breast, one for the eye-glasses he was constantly readjusting, another for his clinical thermometer, and another for his watch. He gave the details of the post-mortem examination, described the dissection of Kouka's body, and identified the bullet.
The crowd pressed forward, trying to find some sensation in the ghastly relic. Eades gave the bullet to the nearest juryman, who examined it carefully and passed it on. It went from hand to hand of the jurymen, each rolled it in his palm, studied it with a look of wisdom; finally it returned to Eades. And the jurors leaned back in their chairs, convinced that Kouka was dead.
The next morning there were other laborers, other physicians, then railroad detectives, who identified the revolver. The day wore away, the atmosphere of the court-room became heavy and somnolent. As skilfully as he could, Eades drew from his witnesses their stories, avoiding all questions that might disclose facts to Archie's advantage, and Marriott battled with these hostile witnesses in long cross-examinations, seeking in vain for some flaw, some inconsistency. The tedium told on the nerves,--Eades and Marriott had several quarrels, exchanged insults, Glassford was petulant, the stolid jurymen exhaled breaths as heavy as snores. Another day came, and judge and lawyers began with steadier nerves, more impersonal and formal manners; they were able to maintain a studious courtesy, the proceedings had an institutional character, something above the human, but as the day advanced, as the struggle grew more intense, as the wrangling became more frequent, it was seen that they were but men, breaking down and giving way to those passions their calm and stately institution condemned and punished in other men.
And through it all Archie sat there silent, and, as the newspaper men scrupulously reported each day, unmoved. But Marriott could hear him breathe, and when occasionally he glanced at him, could see tiny drops of moisture glistening on his brow, could see the cords swelling in his neck, could even hear the gurgle in his throat as he tried to swallow. Archie rarely spoke; he glanced at the witnesses, now and then at the jurors, but most of all at Eades. Thus far, however, the testimony had been formal; there was yet no evidence of premeditation on Archie's part, and that was the vital thing.
XV
And yet Marriott knew better than to hope. As he walked to the court-house Monday morning, he wondered how he was to get through the week. He looked on those he met as the strangely happy and favored beings of another world, and envied them keenly, even the ragged outcasts shoveling the newly-fallen snow from the sidewalks. And there in the upper corridor was that hated crowd, that seemed to be in league with Eades, Glassford, the jury, the police, the whole machinery of the state, to kill Archie, to stamp his identity out of the world. Just then the crowd gyrated in precipitated interest, and he saw Bentley and Danner bringing Archie down the hall, all three stamping the snow from their boots. And he saw another figure, new to him, but one that instantly filled him with strange foreboding. Why, he could not tell, but this was the effect of the figure that shambled down the corridor. The man was alone, a tall gaunt form in rough gray clothes, with a long gray face, walking in loose gangling strides, flinging his huge feet one after the other, leaving moist tracks behind him. A hickory cane dangled by its crook from his left arm, he slowly smoked a cigar, taking it from his mouth occasionally with an uncouth gesture. As he swung along in his awkward, spraddling gait, his frame somehow conveyed paradoxically an impression of strength. It seemed that at any moment this man was in danger of coming apart and collapsing--until Marriott caught his restless eye.
Archie had seen him the instant he entered the corridor. Marriott detected Archie's recognition, and he looked intently for some inkling of the meaning. The man, in the same instant, saw Archie, stopped, took his cigar from his lips, spat, and said in a peculiar, soft voice:
"Why, Archie, my boy."