“Not that poor girl, I say. Those that threw her—her, with the pride of good blood that she felt but didn’t understand—her, with her hopes and brains that her blood gave her—”
“Blood!” roared the Honorable Pulaski. “What do you know about her pedigree?”
“Those that threw her into that pen of swine are responsible,” went on the warden. “Men like you, that have persecuted her and wonder why she doesn’t squeal like the rest of those idiots; men like the whelp in that cage, trying to wrong her and throw her back into hell—all of you are responsible for that fire. You bent the limb. It has snapped back and struck you in your faces. It’s the way of the woods.”
“Well, of all the infernal nonsense I ever listened to, this sermon on Mount Jerusalem clears the skidway,” blurted Britt. “You stand up at the trial and repeat that, Lane, and you’ll get your picture into the newspapers.”
“And I guess a lot of the rest of us will before this scrape gets straightened out,” muttered the high sheriff, bodingly.
“Mr. Britt, you’re going to be sorry for it if you drag that poor abused girl to prison,” said Lane, with such fire of conviction that the timber baron, cautious in his methods, and always fearing the notoriety that would embroil the great secrets of the timber interests with public opinion, blinked at the oracular old warden and then at the still defiant face of the girl. Like most untrained natures in whom passion has unleashed natural high spirit, she seemed incapable of calm reconsideration. She had made such protest against the enormity of her persecution as opportunity had put into her heart as right and into her hands as feasible.
“We were fools to bring her here and toss her into the old hyena’s claws,” muttered Wade in Christopher’s ear. “We might have known that he and his crowd would make for Jerusalem.”
“I did know it,” returned the old guide, quietly. “And I knew just as well what would happen to us in the runway of that fire to-morrow.”
“Lane,” broke in the Honorable Pulaski, with decision, “two trials won’t stir this thing any worse than one. You’ve arranged for one. Go ahead with MacLeod. I’ll have the girl.”
Those who looked on Lane’s face only knew that mighty passions were shaking him. His voice broke and quavered.