The district attorney objects again, and the court again frankly sustains him. The easiest way is certainly being proved the best—for him.
Nothing is developed from the other witnesses, who repeat their testimony. The prosecutor remembers distinctly having his watch, though he knew nothing of its taking.
Then the young champion puts the prisoner upon the stand. Now, if God’s pity ever descends to temper the rigor of human judgment, here is its invocation—
His story is little and simple as his counsel translates it.
He had arrived in the city three days before. He gave a runner his last money to procure him work, but he did not return. And he waited and hungered and walked the streets, neither sleeping nor eating. He staggered against the prosecutor—yes—blindly—in an agony—he apologized—but the man called out—officers came—they shot at him—he fell—and then he opened his eyes as they saw him—bloody—maimed in a prison—
Then there is something which the young attorney hesitates to translate until he is charged with concealing testimony which will injure his case:
“‘It is the doom of God,’” he repeats then. “‘God meant me to stay and die in the ice. But I defied His purposes and came here. God is taking His vengeance. It is useless. These things are come upon me and my country because of sin. I must suffer them. They must. It is the doom of God!’”
“Oh! Is he THAT sort?” laughs the district attorney, and the benchers laugh with him.
The court declines to be amused. It takes time to be amused. And he has none to spare—before dinner.
The prosecuting officer, with a significant smile, declines to cross-examine, and so far as the Commonwealth is concerned, submits the case without argument to the jury. His assistant questions the propriety of this.