"'Hear him!' was the hoa.r.s.e and furious reply of Judge Conway; and reaching out his thin fingers, a habit he had caught from Mr.

Randolph--he pointed at me where I stood.

"'Hear him! He affects innocence! He is outraged! He is indignant! And yet he waylaid my brother, whom he has hated for twenty years--he waylaid him like an a.s.sa.s.sin, and murdered him! There is the proof!'

"And drawing from his pocket a knife, covered with clotted blood, he threw it upon the grave before all eyes.

"Good G.o.d! It was my own!"

XXI.

THE CHAIN OF EVIDENCE.

"At the sight of that terrible object" continued General Davenant, "I staggered back, and nearly fell. I could not believe my eyes--never thought of denying the ownership of the fearful witness,--I could only gaze at it, with a wild horror creeping over me, and then all these terrible emotions were too much for me.

"I took two steps toward the grave, reached out with a shudder to grasp the knife whose clots of blood seemed to burn themselves into my brain--then vertigo seized me, and letting my head fall, I fainted.

"When I regained my senses, I was in my carriage, supported by the arms of my wife, and rolling up the avenue to my own house.

"Opposite me, in the carriage, little Charley, who, dimly realized apparently that some trouble had come to me, was crying bitterly, and a rough personage was endeavoring to quiet his sobbing.

"The personage in question was a constable. When I fainted at the grave, my friends had caught me in their arms--protested with burning indignation that the charge against me was a base calumny--and the magistrate who was summoned by Judge Conway to arrest me, had declined to do more than direct a constable to escort me home, and see that I did not attempt to escape.

"That was kind. I was a murderer, and my proper place a jail. Why should _I_ be more favored than some poor common man charged with that crime? Had such a person been confronted with such a charge, supported by such d.a.m.ning evidence as the b.l.o.o.d.y knife, would any ceremony have been observed? 'To jail!' all would have cried, 'No bail for the murderer!' And why should the rich Mr. Davenant be treated with more consideration?

"On the day after my arrest--I spare you all the harrowing scenes, my poor wife's agony, and every thing, colonel--on the day after, I got into my carriage, and went and demanded to be confined in jail. It was the first time a Davenant had ever been _in jail_--but I went thither without hesitation, if not without a shudder. No sooner had I taken this step than the whole country seemed to have left their homes to visit me in my prison. On the evening of the scene at the grave, twenty persons had called at the 'Pines,' to express their sympathy and indignation at the charge against me. Now, when the iron door of the law had closed upon me, and I was a real prisoner, the visitors came in throngs without number. One and all, they treated the charge as the mere result of Judge Conway's fury--some laughed at, others denounced it as an attempt to entrap and destroy me--all were certain that an investigation would at once demonstrate my innocence, and restore me to liberty and honor.

"Alas! I could only thank my friends, and reply that I hoped that such would be the result. But when they had left me alone, I fell into fits of the deepest dejection.

"What proofs could I give that I was innocent? There was a terrible array of circ.u.mstances, on the contrary, to support the hypothesis of my guilt--much more than I have mentioned, colonel. I had visited the courthouse on the same day with poor George Conway, and for the first time in twenty years had exchanged words with him. And the words were unfriendly. We had both been in the clerk's office of the county, when that gentleman asked me some common-place question--in what year such a person had died, and his will had been recorded, I think. I replied, mentioning a year. The clerk shook his head, declaring that it must have been later, and appealed to poor George Conway, who agreed with him, adding, 'Mr. Davenant is certainly in the wrong.' I was much annoyed that day--made some curt reply--poor George made a similar rejoinder, and some harsh, almost insulting words, pa.s.sed between us.

The affair went no further, however. I left the clerk's office, and having attended to the business which brought me, left the court-house about dusk. As I mounted my horse, I saw poor George Conway riding out of the place. I followed slowly, not wishing to come up with him, turning into a by-road which led toward my own house--and knew nothing of the murder until it was bruited abroad on the next day.

"That is much like the special pleading of a criminal--is it not, colonel? If I had really murdered the poor man, would not this be my method of explaining every thing? You see, I do not deny what several witnesses could prove; the fact that I quarreled with Conway, came to high words, uttered insults, exhibited anger, followed him from the court-house at dusk--I acknowledge all that, but add, that I struck into a by-road and went home! That sounds suspicious, I a.s.sure you, even to myself, to-day. Imagine the effect it promised to have then, when I was a man charged with murder--who would naturally try to frame such a statement as would clear him--and when a large portion of the community were excited and indignant at the murder.

"Such had been the truly unfortunate scene in the clerk's office,--the fatality which made me follow the man going to his death, and my known enmity of long standing, supported the hypothesis of my guilt. There was another, and even more fatal circ.u.mstance still,--the discovery of the knife with which George Conway had been slain. That knife was my own; it was one of peculiar shape, with a handle of tortoise-sh.e.l.l, and I had often used it in presence of my friends and others. A dozen persons could make oath to it as my property; but it was not needed; the scene at the grave made that useless. I evidently did not deny the ownership of the weapon which had been used in the commission of the murder. At the very sight of it, on the contrary, in the hands of the brother of my victim, I had turned pale and fainted!

"This was the condition of things when the special term of the court, held expressly to try me, commenced at Dinwiddie."

XXII.

THE TRIAL.

"A great crowd a.s.sembled on the day of the trial. Judge Conway had vacated the bench, as personally interested, and the judge from a neighboring circuit had taken his place.

"Below the seat of the judge sat the jury. Outside the railing, the spectators were crowded so closely that it was with difficulty the sheriff made a pa.s.sage for my entrance.

"To one resolution I had adhered in spite of the remonstrances of all my friends,--to employ no counsel. In this determination nothing could shake me. A disdainful pride sustained me, mingled with bitter obstinacy. If I, the representative of one of the oldest and most honorable families in the county of Dinwiddie was to be branded as a murderer,--if my past life, my family and personal character, did not refute the charge,--if I was to be dragged to death on suspicion, gibbeted as a murderer, because some felon had stolen my pocket-knife, and committed a crime with it,--then I would go to my death unmoved. I would disdain to frame explanations; let the law murder _me_ if it would; no glib counsel should save my life by technicalities; I would be vindicated by G.o.d and my past life, or would die.

"Such was my state of mind, and such the origin of my refusal to employ counsel. When the court now a.s.signed me counsel, I rose and forbade them to appear for me. In the midst of a stormy scene, and with the prosecuting attorney sitting dumb in his chair, resolved to take no part in the trial, the witnesses appeared upon the stand, and, rather by sufferance than the judge's consent, the jury proceeded to interrogate them.

"The circ.u.mstances which I have detailed to you were all proved in the clearest manner; the altercation in the clerk's office on the day of the murder; my long enmity against him, dating back more than twenty years; the fact that I had followed him out of the village just at dusk on the fatal night; and the discovery of my knife in the tall gra.s.s by the roadside near the body.

"I had summoned no witnesses, but some appeared of their own accord, and gave important testimony. Many neighbors testified that my enmity toward George Conway had almost entirely disappeared in the lapse of years, and that I had spoken of him, upon more than one occasion, with great kindness. The clerk of the county described the scene in his office, stating that the affair had appeared to him a mere interchange of curt words, without exhibition of the least malice on my part. The most important witness, however, was a poor man, living in the neighborhood, who made oath that he had been riding toward the court-house on the evening of the murder; had pa.s.sed Mr. Conway, and, riding on farther, came in sight of me, and he had, before reaching me, seen me turn into the by-road which led toward my own residence. I could not have committed the murder, he added, for Mr. Conway had time to pa.s.s the spot where his body was found before I could have ridden back to the highroad and caught up with him.

"Unfortunately, the witness who gave this testimony bore a very indifferent character, and I could see that more than one of the jurors suspected that he was perjuring himself.

"Another ugly-looking circ.u.mstance also intervened to neutralize the favorable impression thus made. From the irregular mode of proceeding, the fatal knife had not been exhibited in court. Suddenly, a juror called for it, and it could nowhere be found! The sheriff swore that he had left it in the clerk's office, where he supposed it to be entirely safe. Upon searching for it, however, in the drawer where he had deposited it, the weapon was missing.

"When that fact was stated, I saw a curious expression pa.s.s over the faces of more than one of the jury. They evidently suspected foul play.

"'Was the door of the office locked?' asked one of them.

"'Yes, sir,' was the reply.

"'Were the windows secured?'

"'By shutters with bolts.'

"'Are all the bolts on the windows of this building firm?'

"'I think so, sir.'

"'There is one, that is not!' said the juror.

"And he pointed to a long iron bolt on one of the windows, which bore evident traces of having been rent from its socket.

"The sheriff looked in amazement in the direction indicated.

"'You are right, sir!' he said; 'some one has entered the court-house by breaking open the shutter, and stolen that knife from the clerk's office, which is never locked.'

"A meaning silence followed the words. It was not difficult to understand it. The jury looked at each other, and in their glances I could read this--'Mr. Davenant is on trial for his life. He or his friends suborn testimony to prove an alibi on the night of the murder, and not content with that, they hire a burglar to enter the court-house and steal the knife which proves his connection with the deed--that it may not appear in evidence against him.'

"The evidence closed. I had not uttered a word. I had sworn in my heart that I would not stir a finger in the matter--but now, stung beyond endurance, I rose and addressed the jury in impa.s.sioned words. 'Their verdict,' I told them, 'was of little importance if I was to lose the respect of my fellow-citizens. I had made no effort to shape their decision, but now on the brink, it might be of a felon's grave, I would utter my dying words. I would confine myself to protesting before G.o.d, and on my honor, that I had long since forgiven George Conway the wrongs done me--that the scene on the day of his murder was the result of momentary irritability, caused by business annoyances, and not malice--that I had forgotten it in an hour--returned directly to my own house--and only heard of the murder on the day after its commission. As to the knife--I had been suspected if not charged with having had the weapon stolen. Well! my answer to that was to declare that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, _the murder was committed with my own knife!_ More than that. A witness had sworn that he saw me turn into the road to my own residence, at such a distance behind George Conway that I could not have rejoined him before he had pa.s.sed the fatal spot.

The witness was mistaken. There was time. _By riding across the angle through the thicket, I could easily have rejoined him_!

"'And now, gentlemen,' I said, 'I have done. I have left you no ground to charge me with suborning testimony--with having the evidence of my crime stolen--with plotting in darkness, to hide my crime and blind your eyes in determining my guilt or innocence. That knife was mine, I repeat. It was possible for me to rejoin Mr. Conway, and do him to death by a blow with it. Now, retire, gentlemen! Bring in your verdict!

Thank G.o.d! no taint of real dishonor will rest upon a Davenant, and I can appear before my Maker as I stand here to-day--innocent!'

"Ten minutes afterward the jury had retired, with every mark of agitation upon their faces. The great concourse of spectators seemed moved almost beyond control.