Sargent, in rising, had not faced the jury, but stood perfectly silent and rigid, his gaze riveted upon the prisoner. In his eyes was no sign of fear, but a calm watchfulness of some expected danger. The prisoner returned the look, his blood-shot eyes keen and cat-like in the intensity of the passion boiling back of them. His coarse, unkempt hair hung in masses over his forehead, his rough skin and uneven beard and crouching posture but intensified his expression of brutality and vicious force.
The two seemed born to be antagonistic: the absolute want of visible sympathy made the contrast impressive.
Sargent put aside his cane and steadied himself with one hand upon the table; the other he held half poised, as if in the act of defence, for that morning a strange story had been whispered about, and during Jervais' speech it had reached him. He had been told that Phelps was desperate enough to attack him even in the courtroom.
Then, with his gaze still searching the blood-shot eyes of the prisoner, he began his speech. It took the intent crowd of listeners several minutes to adjust themselves to what was happening; then they found that the young lawyer was not talking to them, nor to the Judge, nor even to the jury. His words were directed only to the man before him.
In a low, clear voice, heard in every corner of the courtroom, he was describing to the prisoner, in pitiless detail, the crime committed; painting vividly the scene of the murder, the aged, respected planter lying dead on the floor of his room, a pool of blood about him, his belongings scattered everywhere, his valuables all gone. He told of the man's life, his charity, his good influence upon his neighbours. He described him at home, at his evening meal, surrounded by a happy and dependant family; his awakening in the night to find himself in the grip of a brutal antagonist—and at last, his feeble death struggle with an unseen foe.
The words came from his lips cold, crisp, clear cut, without feeling, yet so forcibly were they chosen, so short and cogent, that they fell upon the ears of his listeners like the beat of a huge hammer upon marble.
The scene rose before the listeners with a vividness that the real one would have lacked, for the wonderful voice of the young lawyer had set fire to their imaginations, and each man saw through his eyes. Every sentence jarred like an electric shock. There was no attempt at eloquence. Where was the need of it with such a subject? And while Sargent was unconsciously inflaming the passions of the crowd back of him, he continued to gaze straight into the blood-shot eyes of the prisoner with all the pent-up vital force within him. If he could only see the faintest sign of acknowledged guilt! That was the thing for which he was searching. It had not yet come.
For a moment his eyes wavered, and as if looking for some new inspiration, he glanced through the open windows to where the leaves of the trees were rustling in the breeze. He had found the prisoner impervious to his words. It was as if he had not been talking, so far as any change in the stolid features showed. There must be some other method necessary to touch the face of iron before him. But he had not reached the limit of his resources yet—no, not by half.
He turned back and faced the prisoner, as fresh and calm as if all the turbulence of a few moments ago had not come from his lips.
Now his eyes held no longer the look of scorn and antagonism. They were tender, appealing and sad. His voice softened and grew warm in its tones, and from him emanated that irresistible gentleness that, we are told, in after years drew even his enemies to him. He was using the utmost force of his magnetism to draw a confession from the man before him.