This is the last witness.
While the jurymen stand aside to deliberate, there is a buzz and murmur among the people up above, and profound quiet below. Attention is divided between the gentlemen of the jury and Clifford Heath. The former are very much agitated. They look troubled, uneasy and uncomfortable. They gesticulate rapidly and with a variety of movements that would be ludicrous were the occasion less solemn, the issue less than a man's life and honor.
Finally the verdict is reached, and is pronounced:
The coroner's jury "find, after due deliberation, that John Burrill came to his death by two dagger, or knife strokes from the hand of Dr. Clifford Heath."
The accused, who, during the entire scene, has stood as immovable as the sphynx, and has not once been startled, disturbed, or surprised from his calm by anything that has been brought forward by the numerous witnesses, lifts his head proudly; lifts his hat, too, with a courtly gesture, to the gentlemen of the jury, that may mean total exoneration from blame, so far as they are concerned, or a haughty defiance, and then, after one sweeping glance around the assembly, a glance which turns for an instant upon the faces of the Lamottes, he beckons to the constable; beckons with a gesture that is obeyed as if it were a command.
"Corliss," he says, just as he would say—"give the patient a hot drink and two powders." "Corliss, I suppose you won't want to lose sight of me, since I have suddenly become public property. Come with me, if you please; I am going home; then—I am at your service."
And without more words, without let or hindrance, without so much as a murmur of disapproval, he lifts himself out of the cellar, and walks, at a moderate pace, and with firm aspect, toward his cottage, closely followed by Corliss, who looks, for the first time, in his official career, as if he would gladly be a simple private citizen, at that moment.
The coroner's inquest is over; there remains now nothing save to remove the body to a more suitable resting place, and to disperse.
Jasper Lamotte moves about, giving short orders in a low tone. He is pallid and visibly nervous. If it were his own son who lay there in their midst, stiff and cold, and saturated with his own blood, he could scarcely appear more agitated, more shocked and sorrowful. He is really shocked; really sorry; he actually regrets the loss of this man, who must have been a constant crucifixion to his pride.
This is what they whisper among themselves, as they gather in knots and furtively watch him, as he moves about the bier.