“I seen him dead, afther having been murdhered.”
“Very right—I stand corrected. Well, you saw him buried?”
“I didn't see him buried, but I saw him dead, as I said, an' the grave ready for him.”
“Do you think now if he were to rise again from that grave, that you would know him?”
“Well I'm sure I can't say. By all accounts the grave makes great changes, but if it didn't change him very much entirely, it wouldn't be hard to know him again—for, as I said, he was a remarkable man.”
“Well, then, we shall give you an opportunity of refreshing your memory—here,” he said, addressing himself to some person behind him; “come forward—get up on the table, and stand face to face with that man.”
The stranger advanced—pushed over to the corner of the table, and, mounting it, stood, as he had been directed, confronting the Black Prophet.
“Whether you seen me dead,” said the stranger, “or whether you seen me buried, is best known to yourself; all I can say is, that here I am—by name Bartle Sullivan, alive an' well, thanks be to the Almighty for it!”
“What is this?” asked the judge, addressing Dalton's counsel; “who is this man?”
“My lord,” replied that gentleman, “this is the individual for the murder of whom, upon the evidence of these two villains, the prisoner at the bar stands charged. It is a conspiracy as singular as it is diabolical; but one which, I trust, we shall clear up, by and by.”