His confederates—those payed ruffians who have hitherto supported him—are of no use now, and their sympathy of no consequence. They have shrunk out of sight—before the majesty of the law, and the damning evidence of his guilt.
Despite his social standing—and the wealth to sustain it—he sees himself alone; without friend or sympathiser: for so stands the assassin in Texas!
His demeanour is completely changed. In place of that high haughty air—oft exhibited in bold brutal bullyism—he looks cowed and craven.
And not strange that he should.
He feels that there is no chance of escape; that he is standing by the side of his coffin—on the edge of an Eternity too terrible to contemplate.
To a conscience like his, it cannot be otherwise than appalling.
All at once a light is seen to flask into his eyes—sunken as they are in the midst of two livid circles. He has the air of one on the eve of making confession.
Is it to be an acknowledgment of guilt? Is he about to unburden his conscience of the weight that must be on it?
The spectators, guessing his intention, stand breathlessly observing him.
There is silence even among the cicadas.