It is superfluous to say that there is universal silence. Even the tree crickets, hitherto “chirping” among the leaves of the live-oak, desist from their shrill stridulation—as if awed by the stillness underneath. Every eye is fixed upon the prisoner; every ear bent to catch the first words of, what may be termed, his confession.
“Judge, and gentlemen of the jury!” says he, commencing his speech in true Texan style; “you are good enough to let me speak for myself; and in availing myself of the privilege, I shall not long detain you.
“First, have I to say: that, notwithstanding the many circumstances mentioned during the course of this trial—which to you appear not only odd, but inexplicable—my story is simple enough; and will explain some of them.
“Not all of the statements you have heard are true. Some of them are false as the lips from which they have fallen.”
The speaker’s glance, directed upon Cassius Calhoun, causes the latter to quail, as if standing before the muzzle of a six-shooter.
“It is true that I met Miss Poindexter, as stated. That noble lady, by her own generous confession, has saved me from the sin of perjuring myself—which otherwise I might have done. In all else I entreat you to believe me.
“It is also true that our interview was a stolen one; and that it was interrupted by him who is not here to speak to what occurred after.
“It is true that angry words passed between us, or rather from him to me: for they were all on his side.
“But it is not true that the quarrel was afterwards renewed; and the man who has so sworn dared not say it, were I free to contradict him as he deserves.”
Again are the eyes of the accused turned towards Calhoun, still cowering behind the crowd.