"Yes, but you must say it again to-day. Yesterday was Sunday, and Sunday is a day of rest, and not of business. I will neither judge you, nor allow you to be judged, by what you said yesterday. Besides, it was all between ourselves, for I don't reckon Mr Rivers as any thing; I count him still as a stranger."
"What's the use of so much palaver, when the thing's plain enough?" said Bob peevishly, raising his head as he spoke.
The men stared at him in grave astonishment. He was really frightful to behold, his face of a sort of blue tint; his cheeks hollow, his beard wild and ragged; his blood-shot eyes rolling, and deep sunk in their sockets. His appearance was scarcely human.
"I tell you, again," said the judge, "I will condemn no man upon his own word alone; much less you, who have been in my service, and eaten of my bread. You accused yourself yesterday, but you were delirious at the time—you had the fever upon you."
"It's no use, squire," said Bob, apparently touched by the kindness of the judge, "You mean well, I see; butt though you might deliver me out of men's hands, you couldn't rescue me from myself. It's no use—I must be hung—hung on the same tree under which the man I killed lies buried."
The men, or the jurors, as I may call them, looked at one another, but said nothing.
"It's no use," again cried Bob, in a shrill, agonized tone. "If he had attacked me, or only threatened me; but no, he didn't do it. I hear his words still, when he said, 'Do it not, man! I've wife and child. What you intend, brings no blessin' on the doer.' But I heard nothin' then except the voice of the devil; I brought the rifle down—levelled—fired."
The man's agony was so intense, that even the iron featured jury seemed moved by it. They cast sharp, but stolen glances at Bob. There was a short silence.
"So you have killed a man?" said a deep bass voice at last.