Long arose, astonished. "How foolish! Reason for a moment—any presentation of this matter calls for the highest ability; it involves sifting of evidence; symmetry of arrangement; cohesiveness of method, logic of argument, persuasiveness of advocacy, subtleties of acumen, charms of eloquence—all the elements of the greatest profession among men!"
Dale leaned heavily against the table, his eyes following the Judge as he walked back and forth.
"Well, I've got 'em—I can't call 'em by name, but I've got the whole damned list—and I'm goin'!"
Long stood at bay, his hand on the door, his face glowing with animation.
"Dale, you're old enough to be my father, but you shall listen. You'd fail before a justice of the peace, and before the President of the United States—it's absurd. You'd go down there, get mad, probably be arrested and kill any hope we might have; why, you're guilty of contempt of court right now. I had a strong influence, yet I failed."
The old farmer of "Lonesome Hill" would listen no more.
"Then wait, John. This letter may at least save you from jail—and you haven't any money; will this do?"
"It's more than I need, Judge."
"No, keep it all—and keep your temper too."
As the Judge stood in the doorway, watching the venerable figure disappear in the drizzling night, a young woman from the dining-room stole to his side and heard him muse: "After all, who knows? A Briton clad in skins once humbled a Roman emperor."