“I seen his face, ez clear ez I see yourn this minit.”
“How did he look,—hearty?”
“Naw, sir; he looked mighty peaked. His face war bleached,”—a thrill ran through the crowd,—“an’ I reckon he war skeered ez he seen me, fur he ’peared plumb tarrified.”
“How long did you see his face?”
“A minit, mebbe; the fog passed ’twixt us.”
“Ah, there was fog!”
The attorney-general cast a triumphant sidelong glance at the jury.
He paused abruptly, and turned toward them.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, addressing Peter Rood. “I had quite forgotten you wanted to ask a question.”
It did not immediately strike him as odd that the man was still in the same position,—in the shadow, leaning forward, supported on the back of the chair of the juryman in front of him, and still pointing at the witness with a long finger.