"The murdered one was the sandy-complexioned man that has been staying with Mr. McGuire, and the other was—"
Here the witness faltered for a moment, and glancing around over the eager, anxious faces that were turned upon him, cast a deprecating look at the prisoner, who was bending far forward, as if drinking in every word.
"And the other?" demanded the judge.
"The murderer was the prisoner, Clay Poynter!"
A deep, hoarse cry of rage and fury ran around the crowd of spectators, but far above it roared the clear, metallic tones of the accused.
"It is false, every word—false as h—l!"
In vain the judge shouted for order; his call was unheeded. The crowd swayed to and fro for a moment, and then rushed forward, as one man, to seize upon the prisoner.
But Neil McGuire ran along the table and stood beside Poynter, with a cocked revolver in his hand. The next instant, obedient to his call, the jurors gathered around, similarly armed. Then McGuire spoke in a tone that overpowered the tumult.
"Stand back—back with you! By the God that made me, if one of you dare to lay a hand on the prisoner, I will spatter the walls with your brains!"
"Hang the murderer—burn him!" roared the crowd.