Into this room, then, was I hurried by the sheriff and his assistants—the mob rushing in after, until every available space was occupied.
Chapter Seventy Nine.
The Crisis.
No doubt a messenger had preceded us, for we found Squire Claiborne in his chair of office, ready to hear the case. In the tall, thin old man, with white hair and dignified aspect, I recognised a fit representative of justice—one of those venerable magistrates, who command respect not only by virtue of age and office, but from the dignity of their personal character. In spite of the noisy rabble that surrounded me, I read in the serene, firm look of the magistrate the determination to show fair play.
I was no longer uneasy. On the way, Reigart had told me to be of good cheer. He had whispered something about “strange developments to be made;” but I had not fully heard him, and was at a loss to comprehend what he meant. In the hurry and crush I had found no opportunity for an explanation.
“Keep up your spirits!” said he, as he pushed his horse alongside me. “Don’t have any fear about the result. It’s rather an odd affair, and will have an odd ending—rather unexpected for somebody, I should say—ha! ha! ha!”
Reigart actually laughed aloud, and appeared to be in high glee! What could such conduct mean?
I was not permitted to know, for at that moment the sheriff, in a high tone of authority, commanded that no one should “hold communication with the prisoner;” and my friend and I were abruptly separated. Strange, I did not dislike the sheriff for this! I had a secret belief that his manner—apparently somewhat hostile to me—was assumed for a purpose. The mob required conciliation; and all this brusquerie was a bit of management on the part of Sheriff Hickman.