“My friends,” he said, in a strong, musical voice, “our young friend here has made a magnificent fight.” (Yells and cheers.) “He has done more than make an eloquent speech. He has mastered the law in the case.” (More yells and shouts.) “It was the intention of my colleagues and myself to move for a new trial. We have abandoned that intention.” (Yells and shouts wilder and wilder.) “We might possibly get a new trial on technicalities. It would cost the county much, and it would not subserve the cause of justice—for I cheerfully acknowledge to you here, that our young friend has proved conclusively that whoever caused the death of the dead man, the prisoner did not. Now will you not unite with me in giving him three cheers and a tiger!”
The uproar was terrific. Pembroke could say nothing, could do nothing, but bow. Suddenly an inspiration came to him. He turned to the attorney-general who stood behind him and shook hands with him warmly. The other lawyers crowded around him and shook hands. Somebody made way through the crowd for Bob Henry. The negro on seeing Pembroke broke into loud sobbing, and seizing him in both arms called down blessings on him. Then Colonel Berkeley shouldered his way up to him with Miles. At every minute the enthusiasm of the crowd increased. Pembroke was growing deadly pale. The excitement, the sleeplessness, of the last week was telling on him at last. Colonel Berkeley, after a sharp glance at him, took him by the arm, and by dint of hauling and pulling succeeded in wedging his way with Pembroke through the crowd, which in the hullaballoo and semi-darkness, did not know that the hero of the hour was gone, and yelled fiercely, “Speech! Speech!” The attorney-general gratified them.
Colonel Berkeley hustled Pembroke down, back through the court-room, out of a side door, and through byways to where the Isleham carriage stood, and clapped him in it, jumping in after him.
“Cave will look after Miles,” he said, and shouted to Petrarch, who was on the box, “Home.” The coachman laid the whip on his horses and they made the five miles to Isleham in half an hour.
When they reached the house, everything was too recent with Pembroke—his final speech, the excitement, the relief, the collapse—for him to have recovered himself. Olivia met them in the hall. Her father, who relished a new sensation as only a man who loves sensations can, was joyous.
“Congratulate him, my love,” he called out in his merry, jovial voice. “He is a true son of old French Pembroke. Great Cæsar! Haven’t I seen your father carry everything before him just like this! Would that he were alive this night! My darling, you should have heard his speech—a regular Burr and Blennerhassett speech, Olivia—and the effect—by Jove, my dear, I can’t describe it—and the Judge called him up on the bench to congratulate him—and—and—”
The Colonel surged on, telling everything at once. Olivia listened with shining eyes. She had held out her hand to Pembroke in the beginning, and as her father talked she continued to hold the hand in her little strong clasp. For the first time Pembroke was burnt by the fire in her eyes. What a woman for a man full of ambition to have! He had seen Elise Koller wildly enthusiastic about herself—but Olivia had forgotten all about herself. She was coloring, smiling, and sympathetic about him.
“How glad I am—how splendid of you—for that poor negro, too. God will reward you,” she said.
“Now, my boy,” cried the Colonel, “What do you want? Your dinner or your bed?”
“My bed,” answered Pembroke, smiling, but ready to drop. “I want nothing but sleep, and I want to sleep a week. Thank you, Olivia.”