There is but one missing link—if link it may be called—the motive.
The motive both for the murder and the mutilation: for the testimony of Gerald has been confirmed by a subsequent examination of the dead body. The surgeon of the cantonment has pronounced the two distinct, and that Henry Poindexter’s death must have ensued, almost instantaneously after his receiving the shot.
Why should Cassius Calhoun have killed his own cousin? Why cut off his head?
No one can answer these questions, save the murderer himself. No one expects him to do so—save to his Maker.
Before Him he must soon stand: for a knowledge of the motive is not deemed essential to his condemnation, and he has been condemned.
The trial has come to a close; the verdict Guilty has been given; and the judge, laying aside his Panama hat, is about to put on the black cap—that dread emblem of death—preparatory to pronouncing the sentence.
In the usual solemn manner the condemned man is invited to make his final speech; to avail himself, as it were, of the last forlorn hope for sentence.
He starts at the invitation—falling, as it does, like a death-knell upon his ear.
He looks wildly around. Despairingly: when on the faces that encircle him he sees not one wearing an expression of sympathy.
There is not even pity. All appear to frown upon him.