“Well, sir,” replied Mr. Cottingham, “I sot up wi’ him one night, but I disremember in pertickler what night it wuz.”
“Did you see the thief?”
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Cottingham, in his deliberate way, looking around over the court-room with a more judicial air than the judge on the bench, “ef you push me close I’ll tell you. Ther wuz a consid’able flutterment in the neighborhoods er whar we sot, an’ me an’ Wash done some mighty sly slippin’ up en surrounderin’; but ez ter seein’ anybody, we didn’t see ’im. We heerd ’m a-scufflin’ an’ a-runnin’, but we didn’t ketch a glimpse un ’im, nuther har ner hide.”
“Did Mr. Jones see him?”
“No more’n I did. I wuz right at Wash’s elbow. We heerd the villyun a-runnin’, but we never seed ’im. Atterwards, when we got back ter the house, Wash he ’lowed it must’a bin that nigger Ananias thar, an’ I ’lowed it jess mought ez well be Ananias ez any yuther nigger, bekaze you know yourself—”
“That will do, Mr. Cottingham,” said Mr. Lawyer Terrell, blandly. The State’s attorney undertook to cross-examine Mr. Cottingham; but he was a blundering man, and the result of his cross-examination was simply a stronger and more impressive repetition of Mr. Cottingham’s testimony.
After this, the solicitor was willing to submit the case to the jury without argument, but Mr. Terrell said that if it pleased the court he had a few words to say to the jury in behalf of his client. The speech made by the State’s attorney was flat and stale, for he was not interested in the case; but Lawyer Terrell’s appeal to the jury is still remembered in Rockville. It was not only powerful, but inimitable; it was humorous, pathetic, and eloquent. When he concluded, the jury, which was composed mostly of middle-aged men, was in tears. The feelings of the spectators were also wrought up to a very high pitch, and when the jury found a verdict of “not guilty,” without retiring, the people in the court-room made the old house ring again with applause.
And then something else occurred. Pressing forward through the crowd came Colonel Benjamin Flewellen. His clothes were a trifle shabby, but he had the air of a prince of the blood. His long white hair fell on his shoulders, and his movements were as precise as those of a grenadier. The spectators made way for him. Those nearest noticed that his eyes were moist, and that his nether lip was a-tremble, but no one made any remark. Colonel Flewellen pressed forward until he reached Ananias, who, scarcely comprehending the situation, was sitting with his hands folded and his head bent down. The colonel placed his hand on the negro’s shoulder.
“Come, boy,” he said, “let’s go home.”
“Me, Marster?” said the negro, looking up with a dazed expression. It was the tone, and not the words, that Ananias heard.