It is broken by the formalised interrogatory of the judge?
“Have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon you?”
“No!” he replies, “I have not. The jury has given a just verdict. I acknowledge that I have forfeited my life, and deserve to lose it.”
Not during all the day—despite its many strange incidents and startling surprises—have the spectators been so astonished. They are confounded beyond the power of speech; and in silence permit the condemned man to proceed, with what they now perceive to be his confession.
“It is quite true,” continues he, “that I killed Henry Poindexter—shot him dead in the chapparal.”
The declaration is answered by a cry from the crowd. It is altogether involuntary, and expresses horror rather than indignation.
Alike involuntary is the groan that goes with it—proceeding from a single individual, whom all know to be the father of the murdered man—once more in their midst.
Beyond these sounds, soon ceasing, there is nothing to hinder the confession from being continued.
“I know that I’ve got to die,” proceeds the prisoner, with an air of seeming recklessness. “You have decreed it; and I can tell by your looks you have no intention to change your minds.
“After what I’ve confessed, it would be folly in me to expect pardon; and I don’t. I’ve been a bad fellow; and no doubt have done enough to deserve my fate. But, bad as I may have been, I’m not vile enough to be sent out of the world, and leave behind me the horrid imputation of having murdered my own cousin. I did take his life, as I’ve told you. You are all asking why, and conjecturing about the motive. There was none.”