“Miss Ballard,” said the lawyer, “you are called upon to identify the prisoner in the box.”
She lifted her eyes to the judge’s face, then turned them upon Milton Hibbard, then fixed them again upon the Elder, but did not open her lips. She did not seem to be aware that every eye in the court room was fastened upon her. Pale and grave and silent she stood thus, for to her the struggle was only between herself and the Elder.
“Miss Ballard, you are called upon to identify the prisoner in the box. Can you do so?” asked the lawyer again, patiently.
Again she turned her clear eyes on the judge’s face, “Yes, I can.” Then, looking into the Elder’s eyes, she said: “He is your son, Elder Craigmile. He is Peter. You know him. Look at him. He is Peter Junior.” Her voice rang clear and strong, and she pointed to the prisoner with steady hand. “Look at him, Elder Craigmile; he is your son.”
“You will address the jury and the court, Miss Ballard, and give your reasons for this assertion. How do you know he is Peter Craigmile, Jr.?”
Then she turned toward the jury, and holding out both hands in sudden pleading action cried out earnestly: “I know him. He is Peter Junior. Can’t you see he is Peter, the Elder’s son?”
“But how do you know him?”
“Because it is he. I know him the way we always know people––by just––knowing them. He is Peter Junior.”
“Have you seen the prisoner before since his return to Leauvite?”