Curran's genius embraced at once the new element in the situation. It struck him instantly that by this sacrifice the poor fellow might perhaps unwittingly have saved his master. When did he take the poison? How long would it be before its work would be accomplished? If he were to fall dead--there--in the dock, before the court assembled, under the eye of the public, it would create such a sensation that the trial would be perforce adjourned. The harrowing details of the suicide would then be spread abroad; they would do much to bring the vile cruelties of the yeomanry home in all their loathsomeness to the British mind, which was so culpably indifferent as to what happened in this colony. There would be a revulsion--an energetic protest. In the confusion Terence might be saved! Poor faithful Phil! He knew not the extent of the service that he rendered. His life would not be sacrificed in vain!
'How much longer will the poison take to work?' Curran whispered in Jug's ear. 'What was it?'
'Sure, it was a tiny root of water-drop wort. Like an illigant parsnip, faith! How much longer? An hour perhaps--maybe two--certainly not more than three.'
It was eleven at night. Toler had two more witnesses to call, he said. If cross-examined they might be made to detain the court for an hour or so. After that the silver tongue must move to good purpose--must toy with argument and rhetoric till the doomed man dropped.
The virtuous ire of the town-major was kindled.
'The drunken brute is asleep!' he called out. 'What an insult to the court! Sure, he'll have a long sleep enough when Moiley eats him. Wake him up!'
Major Sirr was particularly anxious that he should be aware who the next witness was. By dint of shaking, the ushers roused the prisoner from lethargy. With brows painfully knitted he tried to raise his leaden lids, beheld with dilated pupils a blurred vision on the table; sank again without recognition into unconsciousness. Jug too beheld--and gave a low growl.
The new witness was Croppy Biddy; she of the russet locks, who since the burning of the 'Irish Slave' had given herself up to drink and to debauchery--who was become one of the shining Staghouse lights--one of the pet agents of an honourable executive--the Joan of Arc of the Battalion of Testimony. She was dressed like a lady, in a costly beaver with ostrich plume, and a laced riding-dress--the same as she was wont to wear when galloping at the head of a troop of dragoons in search of food for Moiley. No longer a slattern serving-wench in a low shebeen, but a paid and honoured favourite of Government; a lying, drunken, brazen hyæna. This was an admirable joke of Major Sirr's. What a pity it was that it should miscarry! What humour could be more sly and delicate than to clinch a man's fate by the false witness of her whom he had elected to love? Yet, thanks to some officious idiot or other, the bit of fun was spoiled. Biddy was there--saucy, pert, shameless, ready to go any lengths; but her lover was asleep, with his chin upon his breast. The surprise missed fire.
As it turned out, though, the joke was just the least bit too racy. The loud giggling laugh, the palpable untruths flung carelessly about by Biddy, shocked and disgusted the entire audience. Lord Kilwarden turned red, and bowed his face over his papers; even Lord Carleton coughed; and there was an angry murmur from the public who packed the floor.
Mr. Curran, no longer listless and dejected--for hope had revived again--turned the wretched woman round his finger; ensnared her with soft suggestions; led her floundering along from perjury to perjury, turned her inside out; then with a sarcastic bow to Toler, congratulated him upon his witness. By skilful fence half an hour was gained. Counsel for prosecution glared at Sirr. Was this the way to train up witnesses? Biddy was hustled off the table, for her training was lamentably incomplete. There was one more yet to come. It was to be hoped he would do away with the bad impression she had left.