“Was the defendant there?”
“The defendant was there.”
The objection was overruled.
So Williston told briefly but to the point the story of the night attack upon his home, of the defence by himself and his daughter, and of the burning of his house and sheds. Then he proceeded:
“Suddenly, some one caught me from behind, my arms were pinioned to my sides, something was clapped over my mouth. I was flung over a horse and strapped to the saddle all in less time than it takes to tell it, and was borne away in company with the man who had overpowered me.”
He paused a moment in his recital. Faces strained with expectancy devoured him—his every look and word and action. Mary was very pale, carried thus back to the dread realities of that night in August, and shuddered, remembering that ghastly galloping. Langford could scarce restrain himself. He wanted to rip out a blood curdling Sioux war-whoop on the spot.
“Who was this man, Mr. Williston?” asked Gordon.
“Jesse Black.”
Small was on his feet again, gesticulating wildly. “I object! This is all a fabrication, put in here to prejudice the minds of the jury against this defendant. It is a pack of lies, and I move that it be stricken from the record.”
The little lawyer bowed his head to the storm and shrugged up his shoulders. Perhaps he wished that he, or his associate—one of the unholy alliance at least—was where the wicked cease from troubling, on the far away islands of the deep seas, possibly, or home on the farm. But his expression told nothing.