In the open square of the town, set far back in a grove of trees, stood the brick courthouse, considered a large building in those days. In its Hall of Justice was a plastered ceiling on which an architect from the old world had fashioned a circle of hands, each with its forefinger pointing directly down upon the heads of those who sat in judgment.
Home-seekers, coming there in an attempt to settle hopelessly involved land suits: destitute, silent Indians, squatting on the door steps awaiting the decision of some land agent; slaves brought in shiploads from the Bermudas; even wealthy planters looked upon this Hall of Justice with a certain awe. The plastered hands were ominous and unavoidable; always when one looked at them they were pointing so directly at one that it had grown into a saying that when a man was brought before the judges he was "beneath the pointing fingers."
About the courthouse that day was gathered an unusual crowd, for at such a season of the year, when the fields must be ploughed and cotton planted, court was never very largely attended.
Down a long line of hitching posts was almost every conceivable vehicle, including a huge prairie schooner filled with a curious crowd from the Black River country. Whole families, parents, children, slaves, and favourite dogs were picnicking about the square—all had come many miles to hear the trial of a man who had made safety a very uncertain thing for the last five years.
Sargent threaded his way among them, unknown, yet feeling a greater responsibility resting upon him as he saw this evidence of the people's interest. They were looking to him to remove this murderer from their midst. As he went into the courthouse, he met Judge Houston. The old gentleman extended his hand, and for a second smiled encouragingly into the strained eyes of the young lawyer.
"You've been overdoing it, Sargent," he said quietly. "You should have rested. Too much reading of law paralyzes the brain."
Sargent met his look earnestly, without the smile that was always so ready upon his lips.
"I couldn't sleep, and I had to do something. I believe I've read every murder case on record."
"And have you discovered a method by which you can win this one?"
Sargent's eyes glowed brilliantly as he answered. "Your doubt of me is the greatest factor in forcing me on. I don't know how I shall do it, but—I'm going to make that jury render a verdict of guilty."