The old gentleman's brows drew together, and he shook his head slowly, letting his hand rest affectionately on Sargent's shoulder.
"I only hope you will succeed, Sargent—as much for the people's sake as for your own. If justice is not meted out to Phelps by law, I fear it will come to him through the hatred of the people. Go now, boy—do your best. And remember, I have failed many and many a time, others are failing continually, and no one really succeeds until failure has been his tutor. Good-bye! Meet me when the day's session is over."
All through that first day, which was given over to the hearing of evidence, Sargent had grown more and more under the conviction that if he were to win the case it would come from some inspiration which had not yet been given to him. Not that he had for a moment given up hope, for each time such a thought flashed into his mind, it was followed by the thundering necessity for success. And when Phelps was brought into the room and he could look for the first time into the face of the man whose freedom he was attempting to take from him, Sargent forgot everything else in studying the highwayman's features. In them he had suddenly realized an aid to his success.
All through the cross-examination of the witnesses he was thinking of it, even to the intense moment when the two scraps of paper were displayed: one a gun wadding found in the house of the murdered man and the other in the pocket of Jacob Phelps. The two pieces were from a paper of the same date, and though not fitting into each other were considered the strongest evidence against the prisoner. Besides that, only the proximity of the canebrake where Phelps was captured, and a long, detailed report of his former daring robberies were all that he had been able to procure.
The weak point of the evidence was that not an instance of murder could be charged to Phelps. There had always been a doubt of his guilt—and in this Jervais showed his strength. Each of his questions led in labyrinthine windings to the end that nothing had been proved on the prisoner. Indeed, those who swore they recognized him were eventually misled into the belief that they were swearing to an uncertainty.
Finally the recess hour came, and in the afternoon, after all the evidence had been taken, the court adjourned until the next day, when the speeches for the two sides should be made.
Sargent waited for Judge Houston outside the courthouse. He had walked to one side of the grounds where he would not meet the crowd of familiar faces, and be forced to discuss the case, for already he had been quick to feel the disappointment that had settled over them after all the evidence had been heard. Their silence and lowered voices showed their fears, and passing a group hurriedly at the recess hour, he had heard a doubt expressed at Judge Houston's wisdom in appointing him to represent the State. Many little incidents of the day were remembered by him long afterwards, which, in the concentration of all his energies at the time, he had not even been aware of. All he wanted at that moment was material with which to impress the jury—material which was lacking he realized with a sickening dread.
As he stood under the trees and faced the court-house, its brick walls glowing in the late sun, once more the prisoner's face rose before him, photographing itself indelibly upon his mind. Each feature stood out enlarged and vivid; black eyes, bold and fearless and insolent, with the surrounding whites almost entirely red from swollen veins; a low forehead from which black, wiry hair grew out, straight and stiff; a long, aquiline nose with wide nostrils in which showed a heavy growth of hair; heavy lips, the lower one protruding doggedly, yet both suggesting a certain generosity in their amplitude; the chin and side of the face covered with a short beard which reached far up the cheeks to where pock marks glowed deep and white against a swarthy complexion. It was a face characteristic of daring and wild deeds, yet in some lines about the eyes, inscrutable and haunting, there was something unconfessed.
All through the channels of Sargent's imagination, set in motion by this face, insistently colouring every conclusion reached, was the hidden characteristic about the man's eyes which signified something which he felt certain would help him in some way if he could find out what it meant. In a swift passion of futility he pushed out his hands to ward off the first signal of defeat that was steadily creeping over him. He covered his eyes to keep out the likeness of Phelps' face as it glowered down upon him from the court-house wall. Was it possible that he had failed? Had he been too self-confident? Was it only hatred and a desire for vengeance which had made up the ingredients of his confidence? At the end of each question stood the face of Jervais, and the duel—after that, another question. Finally, through the lengthening shadows, he strolled back to the broad steps and waited Judge Houston's coming.
They walked home in the twilight, the old man's arm linked in Sargent's, their heads bent forward in thoughtful silence.