“Are you positive, then, that this man is Black Sam?”
“I am.”
“Are you prepared to swear to it on your solemn oath, taking all the consequences false evidence will bring down upon you?”
“I am.”
“You are quite certain that it's no accidental resemblance, but that this is the very identical man you knew long ago?”
“I'm certain sure. I'd know him among a thousand; and, be the same token, he has a mark of a cut on the crown of his head, three inches long. See, now, if I 'm not right.”
Meekins was now ordered to mount the witness-table, and remove his wig. He was about to say something, but Wallace stopped him and whispered a few words in his ear.
“I would beg to observe,” said the lawyer, “that if an old cicatrix is to be the essential token of recognition, few men who have lived the adventurous life of Meekins will escape calumny.”
“'T is a mark like the letter V,” said Jimmy; “for it was ould Peter himself gave it him, one night, with a brass candlestick. There it is!” cried he, triumphantly; “did n't I tell true?”
The crowded galleries creaked under the pressure of the eager spectators, who now bent forward and gazed on this strong proof of identification.