It produces not only silence, but submission: for plainly do they perceive its design, and that the movement is a precautionary measure due to the skill of the commanding officer of the post.
Equally plain is it, that the presidency of Justice Lynch is no longer possible; and that the law of the land is once more in the ascendant.
Without further opposition Judge Roberts is permitted to resume his functions, so rudely interrupted.
“Fellow citizens!” he cries, with a glance towards his auditory, now more reproachful than appealing, “the law is bound to take its course—just the same in Texas as in the States. I need not tell you that, since most of you, I reckon, have seen corn growing on the other side of the Mississippi. Well, taking this for granted, you wouldn’t hang a man without first hearing what he’s got to say for himself? That would neither be law, nor justice, but downright murder!”
“And hasn’t he done murder?” asks one of the rowdies standing near Calhoun. “It’s only sarvin’ him, as he sarved young Poindexter.”
“There is no certainty about that. You’ve not yet heard all the testimony. Wait till we’ve examined the witnesses on the other side. Crier!” continues he, turning to the official; “call the witnesses for the defence.”
The crier obeys; and Phelim O’Neal is conducted to the stand.
The story of the ci-devant stable-boy, confusedly told, full of incongruities—and in many parts altogether improbable—rather injures the chances of his master being thought innocent.
The San Antonio counsel is but too anxious for his testimony to be cut short—having a firmer reliance on the tale to be told by another.
That other is next announced.