‘Do you propose, prisoner, to call any witnesses?’ asked the judge.
‘Only my master, my lord—Mr Slocum. He’ll speak for me, and he’ll say, I know, that I’m not the man to kill any living thing.’
‘Very well.—And now, before calling him, do you desire to address the jury?’
The interest of the case, which, except for that interest which is inseparable from a trial for murder, had slightly flagged, revived now that a human being was virtually at grips with death. For what had just passed meant that there was no defence or attempt at a defence, that the jury must convict, and that the man must die, without hope of mercy for so cowardly and ungrateful a murderer. There was not a sound in the court. It was late in the afternoon, and the winter sun was setting. Its rays lit up the crimson hangings, the scarlet robes of the judge, the intent faces, all looking one way, the drooping head and white composed countenance of the prisoner—the man standing up there in full health and strength, and whose life was going down with the sun.
‘I have but a few words to say, my lord and gentlemen. I didn’t do it. I was bad enough, and maybe cruel enough in those days, to do it; but I didn’t. I was so drunk and so mad, my lord and gentlemen, that I might have done it if it had happened earlier in the day, unknown almost to myself, and be standing here rightly enough. But I know I couldn’t have done it, and why? Because I was miles away at the time. My poor aunt, as I’ve heard from what has been said, must have been killed between a quarter to and a quarter past eight in the evening. Well, at eight o’clock I was at least five miles off. If I’d done it directly the girl went out of the house—as she says, at a quarter to eight—it isn’t according to reason that I could have broke open the cupboard, took the money, and got five miles off in a quarter of an hour.’ He stopped, and drew the cuff of his coat across his forehead.
Where had I seen him before? Where and when had I seen him do that very action?
‘O gentlemen, I couldn’t have done it! I couldn’t, bad as I was! I know, now, how bad that must have been—the mercy of God has been upon me since those days—but bad as I was, I owed her too much, and knew it, to have hurt her in any way. Won’t you believe me? I tell you I was miles away at the time—miles away. Who can tell us you’re saying true? you will ask. No one, I suppose. Not a soul was near me that I knew, to come here and speak the truth for me this day. But I know the same God that saved Daniel can save me from a sorry end, if it is His will to do it—if not, His will be done! I’m keeping you too long, only saying the same over and over again. I’ll just tell you how it was, and I’ve done, and you must do as duty bids you.’
Another pause. The silence of death, or rather of a deathbed. The faces in the distance of the darkened court shimmered through the gloom, like those of spectres waiting to welcome a coming shade. Then the gas-light burst forth, and all sprang into sudden distinctness, and there was a general half-stir as of relief.
‘Oh, isn’t there one here that can speak for me? Is there any one who remembers the great gas-main explosion in —— Street that year?’
There was again a stir, and a more decided one. Clearly there were many in court who remembered it. I did, for one. And remembering it, I seemed as one in a tunnel, who sees the glimmer from the distant opening, but can distinguish no feature of the landscape beyond.