A new “sensation” makes itself manifest among the spectators. It partakes of surprise, curiosity, and incredulity.
No one speaks, or in any way attempts interruption.
“You wonder at that. It’s easily explained. I killed him by mistake!”
The surprise culminates in a shout; suppressed as the speaker proceeds.
“Yes, by mistake; and God knows I was sorry enough, on discovering that I had made it. I didn’t know myself till long after.”
The condemned man looks up, as if in hopes that he has touched a chord of mercy. There is no sign of it, on the faces that surround him—still solemnly austere.
“I don’t deny,” continues he; “I needn’t—that I intended to kill some one. I did. Nor am I going to deny who it was. It was the cur I see standing before me.”
In a glance of concentrated hatred, the speaker rests his eye upon Gerald; who only answers with a look, so calm as almost to betray indifference.
“Yes. I intended to kill him. I had my reasons. I’m not going to say what they were. It’s no use now.
“I thought I had killed him; but, as hell’s luck would have it, the Irish hound had changed cloaks with my cousin.