“On the contrary,” continues he, “the next meeting between Henry Poindexter and myself, was one of apology on his part, and friendship—I might say affection—on mine.
“Who could have helped liking him? As to forgiving him for the few words he had rashly spoken, I need hardly tell you how grateful I felt for that reconciliation.”
“There was a reconciliation, then?” asks the judge, taking advantage of a pause in the narration. “Where did it take place?”
“About four hundred yards from the spot where the murder was committed.”
The judge starts to his feet. The jury do the same. The spectators, already standing, show signs of a like exciting surprise.
It is the first time any one has spoken positively of the spot where the murder was committed; or even that a murder has been committed at all!
“You mean the place where some blood was found?” doubtingly interrogates the judge.
“I mean the place where Henry Poindexter was assassinated.”
There is a fresh exhibition of astonishment in the Court—expressed in muttered speeches and low exclamations. One louder than the rest is a groan. It is given by Woodley Poindexter; now for the first time made certain he has no longer a son! In the heart of the father has still lingered a hope that his son may be alive: that he might be only missing—kept out of the way by accident, illness, Indians, or some other circumstance. As yet there has been no positive proof of his death—only a thread of circumstantial evidence, and it of the slightest.
This hope, by the testimony of the accused himself, is no longer tenable.