“Those words, gentlemen of the jury,” resumed the prosecutor, “were words of accusation from the lips of Isom Chase when he entered that door and saw this man, his trusted servant, making away with that bag of money, the hoarded savings of Isom Chase through many an industrious year.
“I tell you, gentlemen of the jury, that this defendant, afraid of the consequences of his act when he found himself discovered in the theft, and was compelled to surrender the money to its lawful owner–I tell you then, in that evil moment of passion and disappointment, this defendant 318 snatched that rifle from the wall and shot honest, hardworking old Isom Chase down like a dog!”
“No, no!” cried Mrs. Newbolt, casting out her hands in passionate denial. “Joe didn’t do it!”
“Your honor,” began the prosecutor, turning to the court with an expression of injury in his voice which was almost tearful, “am I to be interrupted––”
“Madam, you must not speak again,” admonished the judge. “Mr. Sheriff, see that the order is obeyed.”
The sheriff leaned over.
“Ma’am, I’ll have to put you out of here if you do that agin,” said he.
Joe placed his hand on his mother’s shoulder and whispered to her. She nodded, as if in obedience to his wish, but she sat straight and alert, her dark eyes glowing with anger as she looked at the prosecutor.
The prosecutor was composing himself to proceed.
“This defendant had robbed old Isom Chase of his hoarded gold, gentlemen of the jury, and that was not all. I tell you, gentlemen, Joe Newbolt had robbed that trusting old man of more than his gold. He had robbed him of his sacred honor!”