“Men!” said he.
“Squire!” answered they.
“We’ve a business before us, which I calculate will be best explained by him whom it concerns.”
The men looked at the Squire, then at Bob, then at me.
“Bob Rock! or whatever your name may be, if you have aught to say, say it!” continued the judge.
“Said it all yesterday,” muttered Bob, his face still covered by his hands.
“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 Morse as anything; 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; but 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.”