But there is little doubt entertained of it. Several circumstances—independent of each other—have united to confirm it; and all believe that the foul deed has been done—as firmly as if they had been eye-witnesses of the act.
They only wait to be told the details; to learn the how, and the when, and the wherefore.
Ten o’clock, and the Court is in session.
There is not much change in the composition of the crowd; only that a sprinkling of military uniforms has become mixed with the more sober dresses of the citizens. The soldiers of the garrison have been dismissed from morning parade; and, free to take their recreation for the day, have sought it among the ranks of the civilian spectators. There stand they side by side—soldiers and citizens—dragoons, riflemen, infantry, and artillery, interspersed among planters, hunters, horse-dealers, and desperate adventurers, having just heard the “Oyez!” of the Court crier—grotesquely pronounced “O yes!”—determined to stand there till they hear the last solemn formulary from the lips of the judge: “May God have mercy on your soul!”
There is scarce one present who does not expect ere night to listen to this terrible final phrase, spoken from under the shadow of that sable cap, that denotes the death doom of a fellow creature.
There may be only a few who wish it. But there are many who feel certain, that the trial will end in a conviction; and that ere the sun has set, the soul of Maurice Gerald will go back to its God!
The Court is in session.
You have before your mind’s eye a large hall, with a raised daïs at one side; a space enclosed between panelled partitions; a table inside it; and on its edge a box-like structure, resembling the rostrum of a lecture-room, or the reading-desk in a church.