“Why, sir,” he replied, “isn’t it quite natural that one of my profession should have a human skeleton in his house? Moreover, had the bones been mine, it is hardly probable that the flesh would have been entirely consumed by the fire.”
This settled that point.
Now Jim McCabe once more became the center of attraction. Some of the most vengeful cried out clamorously for his blood, and the majority were in favor of hanging him on the spot, without any ceremony whatever. But Mr. Moreland earnestly remonstrated against such a proceeding. He told them there was no necessity for haste, and that the criminal should be allowed time to repent before ushering him into the presence of his Maker. Many were loth to wait, but none would disregard the wishes of the speaker.
At this juncture, however, an incident occurred that put an end to the disagreement. All the time that the revelations and explanations were chaining the attention of the whole crowd, Jim McCabe had been struggling desperately with the cords that bound him. Nobody had noticed him, and, by the time Doctor Trafford finished his story, he ceased his squirming and lay perfectly quiet.
All of a sudden he sprung to his feet with the agility of a panther, and bounded into the open space in the midst of the crowd. Here he stood, with limbs entirely free, glaring about him at the mass of people on every side, his face deadly pale, his eyes bloodshot and his nostrils distended.
“Ha! ha! ha!” he screamed, “did you think I would become an easy victim to the tortures you propose to inflict upon me? I did set fire to the house of Doctor Trafford, and it was for the purpose of having his nephew die by the hand of the law. What of it? I shall deny nothing, nor shall I attempt to escape your vengeance. But, hark ye! I shall not go alone. There is one here who must go with me across the dark river!”
He whirled round, as he concluded his wild speech, and stood face to face with Russell Trafford! Thrusting his hand into his breast, he drew forth a glittering dagger, and flourished it over his head with a maniacal yell.
Then, before anybody could make an effort to detain the maddened brute, he crouched down and made a flying leap toward young Trafford. For a single instant his bending form was suspended in mid air—the next it fell sprawling on the grass at the feet of the man he had intended to kill! Almost before he touched the ground Jim McCabe was dead!
Then there were screams of affright from the females, mingled with shouts of surprise and alarm from the males, and scores of excited men crowded around the fallen wretch. In his death-spasm McCabe had turned over on his back, in which position he now lay, his eyes fixed and glassy, his features horribly distorted, and his brains slowly oozing out through a small hole in his temple! Every one seemed struck with a feeling akin to awe by the sad spectacle, and a profound silence ensued. It was broken at length by the deep, solemn voice of Mr. Moreland, saying:
“God have mercy on his soul!”