Before the monotonous summons has been three times repeated, the lady is seen descending the steps of her carriage.
Conducted by an officer of the Court, she takes her stand on the spot set apart for the witnesses.
Without flinching—apparently without fear—she faces towards the Court.
All eyes are upon her: some interrogatively; a few, perhaps, in scorn: but many in admiration—that secret approval which female loveliness exacts, even when allied with guilt!
One regards her with an expression different from the rest: a look of tenderest passion, dashed with an almost imperceptible distrust.
It is the prisoner himself. From him her eyes are averted as from everybody else.
Only one man she appears to think worthy of her attention—he who has just forsaken the stand she occupies. She looks at Calhoun, her own cousin—as though with her eyes she would kill him.
Cowering under the glance, he slinks back, until the crowd conceals him from her sight.
“Where were you, Miss Poindexter, on the night when your brother was last seen?”
The question is put by the State counsellor.