The man seemed to be moved to compassion at his distressed face, and spoke kindly though decisively.
“Thank you, sir,” said Carlos. “I will act on your advice. Where is the officer? I am ready to give myself up.”
He leaned back in the carriage seat, folding his arms.
Some of the crowd grumbled, but the man who had spoken reminded them that the street was not a court-room, and that there was a manner provided by law for proceeding in the case.
At this juncture two policemen approached and jumped into the carriage. One of them slipped a pair of handcuffs on Carlos, and the other took the reins. They drove to the jail, where Carlos was conducted into a cell and locked up, and left alone.
The excitement under which he had labored, and which had subsided into depression, now deepened into intense gloom. That his uncle should die immediately after he had delivered the message from his father, and before the result was made known, was a sufficiently deplorable event. The manner in which he had met his death was still more terrible. But that Carlos himself should be accused, with apparently good reason, of being the murderer, seemed to be the culmination of misfortune. He gave way to the burden that was cast upon him, and for hours his mind was in a hopelessly torpid state.
He made no reply to the question as to whether he desired counsel, and so dead did he seem to everything passing around him, that the jailer deemed it best to call in a physician.
Dr. Davison was summoned. He was the tall, keen-eyed man that had offered the timely counsel to Carlos when he was besieged by the crowd.
When he entered the cell the prisoner was apparently unaware of his presence.
The physician felt of his pulse, looked at his face critically, and examined the eyes that refused to direct their glance at him.