Silas looked from side to side, and his lower lip trembled. His back took a more disconsolate droop. There are no words in the English language to describe how utterly downcast and hopeless and woe-saturated he looked. Milton came near it when he said something about “Below the lowest depths still lower depths—” In woe Silas was in depths a couple of stories lower than that.
“Well?” said the justice, sharply.
“Answer his Honor whin he addrisses ye!” shouted Flaherty, and Silas moistened his lips and gulped.
“No, sah! Ah—Ah ain’ hear them wuds perzackly, nevah befo’. Ah ain’ heah, ‘Ain’ gone to hebben.’ Ah jes heah ‘Ain’ gwine to hebben.’”
“Oh, you did hear that, did you?” said the justice. “Who said that?”
Silas stared at his boot. He blinked a couple of times, and then spoke.
“Ol’ Noah, he say thim wuds,” he said. The judge turned to the old Negro on the chair in the front row, and pointed at him.
“That Noah?” he asked. “Is that the man?”
“Yassah,” said Silas, sadly. “Dass de man. He say hit.”
Old Noah, seeing that the conversation was veering his way, arose and came forward, his hand behind his ear and expectation in his face.