His mother had taken his hand between her rough palms, and was chafing it, as if to call back its warmth and life. She was not looking at her son, for her faith had not departed from him for one moment, and would not have diminished 327 if they had condemned him under the accusation. Her eyes were on Ollie’s face, her lips were murmuring beneath her breath:
“Thank the Lord for His justice and mercy! Thank the Lord, thank the Lord!”
Ollie had settled in the witness-chair again, in the midst of her wide-skirted mourning habit, as on that other day. Joe Newbolt prayed in his heart for the mitigation of public censure, and for strength to sustain her in her hour of sacrifice.
That Ollie had come forward to save him–unasked, unexpected–was like the comfort of a cloak against the wintry wind. The public believed that she was going to “own up” to it now, and to clinch the case against Joe. Some of them began to make mental calculations on the capacity of the jail yard, and to lay plans for securing passes to the hanging.
Hammer stepped forward to question the witness, and the prosecuting attorney sat down, alert and ready to interpose in case things should start the wrong way. He had lost sight of justice completely, after the fixed habit of his kind, in his eagerness to advance his own prospects by securing the conviction of the accused.
Ollie sat facing Judge Maxwell, who had turned in his swivel-chair; moved out of his bearing of studious concentration, which was his usual characteristic on the bench.
“Now, Mrs. Chase, tell your story in your own way, and take your own time for it,” said Hammer, kindly patronizing.
“I don’t want Joe to suffer for me,” she said, letting her sad eyes rest on him for a moment. “What he kept back wasn’t for his own sake. It was for mine.”
“Yes; go on, Mrs. Chase,” said Hammer as she hesitated there.
“Joe didn’t shoot Isom. That happened just the way he’s 328 said. I know all about it, for I was there. Joe didn’t know anything about that money. I’ll tell you about that, too.”