The prison was merely a public-house—around which a crowd of people were beginning to assemble.
I wished to see the prisoner; but he was in an inside room, with the men who guarded him; and these were a little particular as to who was admitted into his presence. I had to wait, therefore, until he should be led out to execution.
On finding that I could not be allowed to see the murderer—and as I was anxious to learn something immediately—I determined on taking a look at his victim. It would be easy to do this: as the house where the dead woman was lying was not far distant, from that which contained her murderer.
Accompanied by Stormy, I walked over to the house; and we were admitted into the room where the corpse was lying. The face of the murdered woman was concealed under a white cloth; and while standing over the body, I was more strangely agitated than I had ever been before. Should I, on removing that slight shrouding of cotton, behold the inanimate features of my mother?
The suspense was agonisingly interesting. The covering was at length removed; and I breathed again. The body was not that of my mother; but of a young woman apparently about nineteen or twenty years of age. She had been a beautiful woman, and was still so—even in death!
Less tortured by my thoughts, I followed Stormy back to the public-house—around which the crowd had greatly increased: for it was now twelve o’clock, the hour appointed for the execution.
My heart beat audibly, as the criminal was led forth, surrounded by his guards and attendants.
Stormy was right. The murderer was Matthew Leary!
“What shall I do?” I inquired of Stormy, as we followed the criminal to the place of execution.
“You can do nothing,” answered Stormy. “Let them teach him manners. If you interfere, you’ll be larnt some yourself.”