“The State is satisfied,” said the assistant district attorney, and sat down.
Sampson caught his breath. Satisfied? It meant that he was acceptable to the State! After all he had said, he was acceptable to the State. He could hardly believe his ears. Landed! Landed, that's what it meant. The defence would take him like a shot. A cold perspiration burst out all over him. And while he was still wondering how the district attorney could have entrusted the case to such an incompetent subordinate, counsel for the defence began to ply him with questions—perfunctory, ponderous questions that might have been omitted, for any one with half an eye could see that Sampson was doomed the instant the State said it was satisfied.
His spirit was gone. He recognised the inevitable; in a dazed sort of way he answered the questions, usually in monosyllables and utterly without spunk. Miss Hildebrand was no longer resting her elbows on the table in front of her in an attitude of suspense. She was leaning comfortably back in her chair, her head cocked a little to one side, and she gazed serenely at the topmost pane of glass in the tall window behind the jury box. She appeared to be completely satisfied.
He saw the two lawyers lean across the table in consultation with the prisoner and his granddaughter, their heads close together. They were discussing him as if he were the criminal in the case. Miss Hildebrand peered at him as she whispered something in her grandfather's ear, and then he caught a fleeting, though friendly smile in her eyes. He was reminded, in spite of his extreme discomfiture, that she was an amazingly pretty girl.
“No challenge,” said the defendant's attorney, and Sampson was told to take seat No. 3 in the jury box.
“Defendant, look upon the juror. Juror, look upon the defendant,” said the clerk, and with his hand on the Bible Sampson took the oath to render a true verdict according to the law and the evidence, all the while looking straight into the eyes of the gaunt old man who stood and looked at him wearily, drearily, as if from a distance that rendered his vision useless.
Then Sampson sank awkwardly into the third seat, and sighed so profoundly that juror No. 2 chuckled.
He certainly was in for it now.