The populace, recovering from its surprise at sight of the wagon, changed its mood, and surrounded it with angry demonstrations, hissing and threatening. The face of the prisoner was calm, proud, defiant—the face of a man in triumphal entry. He was unconscious of his awful position, his awful crimes. He saw only the notoriety.
Dr. Moore turned to me. "See Maloney—see his face; he thinks himself a hero—he is too insane to appreciate the truth." But Skinner looked out upon the crowd and paled; then glancing up, he caught the eyes of Quintus Oakes, and with a harrowing, beseeching expression, bent his gray head into his hands.
The populace in fury tried to stop the wagon; but now, at this instant, Oakes rose to the occasion, and the man showed the mettle and the humanity that was in him.
Rising to his full height, he spoke:
"Stop! This is no time to hiss. Remember, the murderer is irresponsible; the other is his father—an old, old man!"
As Quintus's voice rang out in its clear, strong notes, with a marvelously tender accent, and as the full meaning of his words became apparent, a sudden silence seized the crowd—a silence intense, uneasy, sympathetic. Quintus Oakes was single-handed, alone, but the master mind, the controlling man among us all.
The silence deepened as men glanced about with ill-concealed emotion—deep, suppressed.
The wagon moved on, and the stillness was broken only by the crunching of the wheels and the occasional sighing, heavy breathing of the populace. Over all was the suspense, the quick, awe-inspiring change from vicious hatred to pity and grief, blended instantly in the hearts of all by that strong, vigorous, quick-minded man of action and of justice—Oakes.
Taking advantage of the lull, Quintus stepped into the crowd, and before any could foresee his purpose, he threw his coat over the pommel of a saddled horse just being led around the corner—his horse—and springing lightly, gracefully to the saddle took the reins.
The crowd, divining his intent, closed about him, but with horsemanship beautiful to behold he forced the animal to canter to one side, and then to rear, making an opening in the crowd. The next moment he darted forward—away—as the people, realizing the tenderness of his speech and that he was leaving them, perhaps for always, bellowed a reverberating, tumultuous farewell.