"Ay; I shot him over Gilbert's shoulder. I fired at both; either would have served me. But who was the third one? Old Falconer did not die!"
"A justice of the peace, Lingo! do you hear?" said Affidavy, grinning with triumph. "I reckon I'll sort you, you covetous, cheating dog!"
"Come, squire, don't be mad," whispered the jailer, with two or three significant winks: "We'll go snacks yet."
"What, you rascal, do you think to bribe me to keep silence? Oho! you cormorant, I've got the play now in my own hands; and we won't go snacks: I work on my own foundation. You've heard the man's words here; deny them if you can. Send for a squire, or refuse at your peril: I'll bawl out the window, and raise the town."
"There's no need of being contractious," said Lingo, coolly. "I sent Hanschen for old Squire Leger an hour ago; for I reckon I was a leetle before you! The man asked for him of his own accord, while you was a snoozing in the corner; for it's a gone case with him, and he knows it."
The lawyer was petrified at this announcement; it was a new and mortal disappointment; for he designed to make profitable use to himself of his discovery; and to complete his confusion, the door was opened at that moment, and Hanschen entered, ushering in the worthy Schlachtenschlager, whom he had lighted upon by accident, after searching in vain for the other magistrate, after whom he had been sent an hour before. The attorney groaned; with one hand he grasped the Squire's extended palm, and the other he shook in the face of Lingo, who grinned, and winked, and nodded at him, with the most provoking good-humour. But Affidavy was not a man to be disheartened even in such an extremity; he no longer dreaded an exposure of his extra-professional services on the prisoner's behalf; and he perceived that there was still a field, although a narrow one, on which to display his zeal. Trusting therefore to his skill to make his client sensible of the full merit of his labour, he addressed himself to the task of shriving the discovered felon, with a tact and sagacity that were soon perceived to be as useful as they were really indispensable.
It was found that Sterling was in a very critical state, his bodily powers being completely wrecked, and his mind so much unhinged that he could scarce answer two consecutive questions without wandering. The causes that had brought him to this condition it was not easy to imagine, unless by supposing he had received some fatal internal injury during his struggle with Oran Gilbert; or by referring all at once to the horror of mind with which, it seemed, he had been affected from the moment he felt himself a homicide. A homicide he was, as was soon made apparent; for being led on and assisted by the questions of Affidavy, he confessed, without any reluctance or attempt at equivocation, that he had sworn falsely in regard to the exchange of pistols betwixt himself and Hyland, such exchange never having taken place; and that he, and no other, had shot the pistol that killed young Falconer. The reasons for this act were but imperfectly developed; and the strongest seemed to be a bitter hatred he had conceived against the deceased, in consequence of an indignity offered him long since in the theatre, from which he had been hissed, chiefly through Falconer's instrumentality. Such a cause for vengeance may be understood by those who remember the rivers of blood poured out at Lyons, ten years after, to satiate the rankling fury of a Collot d'Herbois. It will be remembered in what manner he volunteered, while in the swamp with Oran Gilbert, to take the life of this unlucky youth; as well as the attempt he made upon it the following night, in the park, when he discovered him struggling with Hyland. It appeared, besides, that after having rendered himself into the hands of the pursuers, and confessed his true name and character, the reckless lieutenant pursued him with divers jests and jeers, which were the more intolerable that his quarrel with the Gilberts had left his mind in a state of furious passion; and an additional incentive was offered by the scuffle between the two rivals, in which any execution of vengeance would be so readily imputed to accident, if traced to him at all. He succeeded beyond his expectations; the object of his hatred lay a corpse before him—but from that moment Sterling was another and a changed man. His mind was filled with horror—not remorse, for to the last he testified nothing like penitence—but with a nameless and oppressive dread, which was increased tenfold by the reflection that this act had, or would in the end, deprive a second fellow being of life, that second being the unfortunate youth whom an extraordinary accident had imbued with a belief that he was himself the murderer. Hence the singular turn of his testimony, and his attempt to throw a doubt upon the prisoner's guilt; until the sudden discovery of the damaged pistol struck him with a fear, until then unfelt, for his own safety. He dreaded lest his own weapons, which had been taken from him immediately after the catastrophe, and from which, in the agitation of his spirits, he had forgotten to remove the evidences of guilt, should be examined, and thus suspicion diverted upon himself. To prevent this, he invented the falsehood concerning the exchange, and thus screened himself from suspicion, at the expense of a second act of murder. But from that moment his horror became insupportable; and after struggling with it in vain, and becoming persuaded that his own fate was drawing nigh, he summoned Lingo, made a deliberate confession of his villany, and desired that his deposition might be taken, before his madness, of whose approaches he seemed conscious, should render reparation impossible.
It was now taken, and with difficulty, but it was conclusive; and so intent became all present upon the strange and impressive story, and, after it was concluded, so eager were all to confirm it by inducing repetitions of the most important circumstances, that even the sudden sound of fire-arms on the square, followed by the outcries in Hyland's cell, were unheard and unnoticed, until Hanschen suddenly rushed among them, with the intelligence, as he expressed it, 'that there fas murdter going on in the Hawk's room.'
All started up, leaving Sterling to rave, perhaps to die, alone, and made their way to the prisoner's apartment, where Colonel Falconer was found weltering in blood in the arms of Elsie and his son, a rifle-bullet having penetrated his side, and lodged in the body; and it was soon gathered, from the remorseful expressions of Hyland, that it had been shot by a refugee—the last act of friendship that could be rendered to a helpless and hopeless comrade.
"It was shot by Oran Gilbert," said Elsie Bell, "for there is none left but him! Yes, Richard Falconer, I said it would come sooner or later! It is well for you, too,—you will not see the death of your son's murderer!"