In his actions there was observable a certain juste milieu. His words were alike well-balanced; displaying, even over his cups, a reticence somewhat rare among his countrymen.
No one seemed to know whence he came; for what reason he had settled in Texas; or why he had taken to such a queer “trade,” as that of catching wild horses—a calling not deemed the most reputable.
It seemed all the more strange to those who knew: that he was not only educated, but evidently a “born gentleman”—a phrase, however, of but slight significance upon the frontiers of Texas.
There, too, was the thing itself regarded with no great wonder; where “born noblemen,” both of France and the “Faderland,” may oft be encountered seeking an honest livelihood by the sweat of their brow.
A fig for all patents of nobility—save those stamped by the true die of Nature!
Such is the sentiment of this far free land.
And this sort of impress the young Irishman carries about him—blazoned like the broad arrow. There is no one likely to mistake him for either fool or villain.
And yet he stands in the presence of an assembly, called upon to regard him as an assassin—one who in the dead hour of night has spilled innocent blood, and taken away the life of a fellow-creature!
Can the charge be true? If so, may God have mercy on his soul!
Some such reflection passes through the minds of the spectators, as they stand with eyes fixed upon him, waiting for his trial to begin.