“Silence! silence!” bawled the usher.
As soon as order had been, in some measure, restored, Mas Wirio Kesoemo proceeded to dwell on the increasing temerity of the opium smugglers, who scrupled not to take a human life rather than risk the loss of their smuggled wares. He insisted upon the necessity of inflicting the extreme penalty for the protection of the police in the execution of their arduous duties; and he ended his speech by demanding that the murderer be condemned to death by hanging, or, if the defence could establish any extenuating circumstances, that the sentence should be at least twenty years of penal servitude with hard labour.
A deep silence reigned in the pandoppo as the djaksa resumed his seat, one might have heard a pin drop, so intensely was that frivolous crowd impressed by this fearful demand for a human life. A kind of spell lay upon all, every heart seemed compressed as in a vice. A general sigh of relief was heard when the president broke the silence:
“Setrosmito,” asked Mr. Greveland, “have you heard what the public prosecutor has said?”
The prisoner looked up with a puzzled expression at the speaker; but he did not answer a word. The entire case had been conducted in Malay, of which he did not understand a single word. The expression of the poor fellow’s face showed that plainly enough. The president repeated his question, which the djaksa, thereupon, interpreted to Setrosmito. The prisoner cast one look upon August van Beneden, and upon a nod from the latter, answered:
“Yes, kandjeng toean.”
“Have you anything to say in reply?” asked the president.
Another look at his counsel, and then the prisoner answered:
“No, kandjeng toean.”
A cry of indignation and horror arose in the pandoppo at the seeming callousness of the answer.