They cower under the stinging reproach. She continues:—
“A trial indeed! A fair trial! The accused without counsel—condemned without being heard! And this you call justice? Texan justice? My scorn upon you—not men, but murderers!”
“What means this?” shouts Poindexter, rushing up, and seizing his daughter by the arm. “You are mad—Loo—mad! How come you to be here? Did I not tell you to go home? Away—this instant away; and do not interfere with what does not concern you!”
“Father, it does concern me!”
“How?—how?—oh true—as a sister! This man is the murderer of your brother.”
“I will not—cannot believe it. Never—never! There was no motive. O men! if you be men, do not act like savages. Give him a fair trial, and then—then—”
“He’s had a fair trial,” calls one from the crowd, who seems to speak from instigation; “Ne’er a doubt about his being guilty. It’s him that’s killed your brother, and nobody else. And it don’t look well, Miss Poindexter—excuse me for saying it;—but it don’t look just the thing, that you should be trying to screen him from his deserving.”
“No, that it don’t,” chime in several voices. “Justice must take its course!” shouts one, in the hackneyed phrase of the law courts.
“It must!—it must!” echoes the chorus. “We are sorry to disoblige you, miss; but we must request you to leave. Mr Poindexter, you’d do well to take your daughter away.”
“Come, Loo! ’Tis not the place You must come away. You refuse! Good God! my daughter; do you mean to disobey me? Here, Cash; take hold of her arm, and conduct her from the spot. If you refuse to go willingly, we must use force, Loo. A good girl now. Do as I tell you. Go! Go!”