Well known as he was, the sight startled and agitated them, and, in their ignorance of the real murderer, suspicion fastened upon the hermit, who, tall and dignified, with his white hair falling upon his shoulders, stood among them like a being from another world.
Trafton’s habits were well known, but the manner of his death enlisted public sympathy.
“Poor John!” said Tom Scott. “I’ve known him, man and boy, for a’most fifty years, and I never thought to see him lying like this.”
“And what will you do with his murderer?” asked his wife in a shrill voice.
Mrs. Scott was somewhat of a virago, but she voiced the popular thought, and all looked to Scott for an expression of feeling.
“He ought to be strung up when he’s found,” said Scott.
“You won’t have to look far for him, I’m thinkin’,” said Mrs. Scott.
“What do you mean, wife?” asked Scott, who was not of a suspicious turn.
“There he stands!” said the virago, pointing with her extended finger to the hermit.
As this was a thought which had come to others, hostile eyes looked upon the hermit, and two or three moved forward as if to seize him.