“Everything was so certain that the assassin did not even undertake to contradict; not one statement, not one word of the evidence against him did he deny. It was a plain case of willful, deliberate and premeditated murder. The judge presiding at the trial instructed the jury that a man is presumed to intend that which he does; that whoever kills a human being with malice aforethought is guilty of murder; that murder which is perpetrated by any kind of willful, deliberate and premeditated killing is murder in the first degree. The jury found the assassin guilty and the judge sentenced him to be hanged.”
The Count paused and looked at his companions about him on the terrace.
“Messieurs,” he said, “do you think that conviction was just?”
There was a common assent. Some one said: “It was a cruel murder if ever there was one.” And another: “It was wholly just; the creature deserved to hang.”
The old Count bowed, putting out his hands.
“And so I hoped he would.”
“What happened?” said the American.
The Count regarded him with a queer, ironical smile.
“Unlike the great British people, monsieur,” he replied, “your courts have never given the pig, or the pasture on which he gathers his acorns, a consideration above the human family. The case was taken to your Court of Appeals of that province.”
He stopped and lighted his cigarette deliberately, with a match scratched slowly on the table.