“Queer that,” observed the judge.
“Ay, very queer!” said Bob, mournfully. “But it’s all no use. Nothin’ does me any good. I shan’t be better—I shall never have peace till I’m hung.”
Bob evidently felt relieved now; he had in a manner passed sentence on himself. Strange as it may appear, I had a similar feeling, and could not help nodding my head approvingly. The judge alone preserved an unmoved countenance.
“Indeed!” said he; “indeed! You think you’ll be no better till you’re hung?”
“Yes,” answered Bob, with eager haste. “Hung on the same tree under which he lies buried.”
“Well, if you will have it so, we’ll see what can be done for you. We’ll call a jury of the neighbours together to-morrow.”
“Thank ye, squire,” murmured Bob, visibly comforted by this promise.
“We’ll summon a jury,” repeated the Alcalde, “and see what can be done for you. You’ll perhaps have changed your mind by that time.”
I stared at him like one fallen from the clouds, but he did not seem to notice my surprise.