All these are signs not to be disregarded; I know something is about to happen; I lie in bed and watch for it. Outside, I know that nature is cool and gray—delightful. I wait; it comes. The fierce yellow light begins to fade from out the electric globes; and finally, as it becomes less intense, each little red wire is visible; which fades into pink and disappears. The fearful light, the cruel, torturing, piercing light is gone. And that is how dawn comes to us in the Death-Chamber.
CHAPTER XX
Impressions
While the Jury is Out—The First Jury
It is said that everything is relative. A fixed period of time, for instance, is either long or short, according to circumstances. There is an exception to this rule. Time is always long while the jury is out. Be this period eight hours or six minutes in duration, either constitutes a life-time. I know, for I have experienced both.
To a man whose brain is analytical, here is a splendid opportunity to administer to his mind some of its own medicine. While the first jury considered my case I noted my impressions in my little red diary, for, thought I, this is a road over which few travellers pass; it is really a unique experience, an episode in a life. I will record my impressions. That jury was most considerate; it did not hurry me in the slightest; it was out eight hours. I started to record my impressions while the second jury deliberated; it interrupted me in six minutes—but I have forgiven it.
Here are the thoughts which came to me during the period at the end of my first trial; but before I quote from my note-book—it will be unnecessary to open it, for I shall never forget what is inside—it may be of interest to know the circumstances under which the entries were written.
My trial for murder is almost over. The evidence against me has all been given—there was none offered in my defence, for technical reasons. The closing arguments by counsels have been made; the judge has charged the jury, and the jury is out. My fate rests upon the knees of the gods. All of which means that I am in a little iron pen, and that twelve men occupy the next room, deliberating whether life or death shall be my portion. I am very tired; for full three months I have been under a physical strain and a mental tension—I have been falsely accused, I am innocent. There are three who know this—myself, the man who did the murder, and God.
February 10, 1900. The first entry at 3.30 o’clock P.M.
The keepers are watching me curiously. Their trained eyes are like microscopes, through which they study and compare my conduct with that of previous defendants whom they have guarded under similar circumstances. They are calculating how long it will take for me to break down and show nervousness. I think they have a bet on the subject. It is irritating. If I should ask for a drink of water, they would exchange glances. I must not throw away my cigar before it is quite smoked up, neither must I let it go out—for these are bad signs. No laughter on my part, even should something impress me as being amusing—it would sound “forced.” And, above all, no blowing of the nose, even if I want to. They will suspect a surreptitious use of my handkerchief for another purpose. Any one may guess, and very cleverly, at mental agony expressed through physical distress. But what if there are no visible signs of distress? There shall be none. I wonder how they will interpret my occupation of writing this? If they imagine I am making my will they must think me possessed of much to give away.