“I’ll have to commit you from your own lips, if there’s more such evidence to come.”
“I don’t care!” said Tom, in a ringing voice, “I’ll tell you that I was half crazy after I left her, for I didn’t know that she was going to be married till she told me herself. I met Isaac Naylor at the very place where he was killed, and I did use violence to him; but I neither struck him nor killed him.”
“That’ll do,” said Mr. Morrow, “I’ll have to commit you for trial. I’d have had to commit you, anyhow, even if you hadn’t spoken a word, for there was evidence enough for it. I’m sorry for you; very sorry.”
He dipped his pen in the ink as he spoke, and began writing.
Tom’s father laid his horny palm on Tom’s hand as he stood clutching the railing in front of him. “Thee’s done right to speak, even if it weighs against thee, Thomas,” said he. The tears arose in Tom’s eyes at his father’s words. All the time he had been speaking, he was looking at Patty. She was leaning back in her chair with her lips apart, and her eyes just showing through the half-closed lids. He saw that she had heard nothing of what he had said, and he was glad of it.
The magistrate reached across the railing, and handed the commitment to the constable.
“Farewell, father,” said Tom, “thee believes that I’m innocent; don’t thee?”
“Yes; I do,” said his father, in a husky voice. Then he gave way to his feelings, as no one had ever seen him do before—he laid both hands on his son’s shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek.
“Farewell, John; farewell, William,” said he, reaching out his hands to his brothers.
“Farewell, Thomas,” said John, clapping him upon the shoulder, and trying to speak cheerfully; “thee’ll come out all right; I know thee will!”