Had the order been reversed, and Gerald inquiring about and going after him, the case would have been clearer. But even then there would have been an absence of motive. Who can show this, to satisfy the jury?

Several witnesses are called; but their testimony rather favours the reverse view. Some of them testify to the friendly feeling that existed between the prisoner and the man he stands charged with having murdered.

One is at length called up who gives evidence of the opposite. It is Captain Ca.s.sius Calhoun.

His story produces a complete change in the character of the trial. It not only discloses a motive for the murder, but darkens the deed tenfold.

After a craftily worded preface, in which he declares his reluctance to make the exposure, he ends by telling all: the scene in the garden; the quarrel; the departure of Gerald, which he describes as having been accompanied by a threat; his being followed by Henry; everything but the true motive for this following, and his own course of action throughout.

These two facts he keeps carefully to himself.

The scandalous revelation causes a universal surprise--alike shared by judge, jury, and spectators. It exhibits itself in an unmistakable manner--here in ominous whisperings, there in e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns of anger.

These are not directed towards the man who has testified; but against him who stands before them, now presumptively charged with a double crime: the a.s.sa.s.sination of a son--the defilement of a daughter!

A groan had been heard as the terrible testimony proceeded. It came from a man of more than middle age--of sad subdued aspect--whom all knew to be the father of both these unfortunates.

But the eyes of the spectators dwell not on him. They look beyond, to a curtained _caleche_, in which is seen seated a lady: so fair, as long before to have fixed their attention.

Strange are the glances turned upon her; strange, though not inexplicable: for it is Louise Poindexter who occupies the carriage.

Is she there of her own accord--by her own free will?

So runs the inquiry around, and the whispered reflections that follow it.

There is not much time allowed them for speculation. They have their answer in the crier's voice, heard p.r.o.nouncing the name--

"Louise Poindexter!"

Calhoun has kept his word.

CHAPTER EIGHTY EIGHT.

AN UNWILLING WITNESS.

Before the monotonous summons has been three times repeated, the lady is seen descending the steps of her carriage.

Conducted by an officer of the Court, she takes her stand on the spot set apart for the witnesses.

Without flinching--apparently without fear--she faces towards the Court.

All eyes are upon her: some interrogatively; a few, perhaps, in scorn: but many in admiration--that secret approval which female loveliness exacts, even when allied with guilt!

One regards her with an expression different from the rest: a look of tenderest pa.s.sion, dashed with an almost imperceptible distrust.

It is the prisoner himself. From him her eyes are averted as from everybody else.

Only one man she appears to think worthy of her attention--he who has just forsaken the stand she occupies. She looks at Calhoun, her own cousin--as though with her eyes she would kill him.

Cowering under the glance, he slinks back, until the crowd conceals him from her sight.

"Where were you, Miss Poindexter, on the night when your brother was last seen?"

The question is put by the State counsellor.

"At home,--in my father's house."

"May I ask, if on that night you went into the garden?"

"I did."

"Perhaps you will be good enough to inform the Court at what hour?"

"At the hour of midnight--if I rightly remember."

"Were you alone?"

"Not all the time."

"Part of it there was some one with you?"

"There was."

"Judging by your frankness, Miss Poindexter, you will not refuse to inform the Court who that person was?"

"Certainly not."

"May I ask the name of the individual?"

"There was more than one. My brother was there."

"But before your brother came upon the ground, was there not some one else in your company?"

"There was."

"It is _his_ name we wish you to give. I hope you will not withhold it."

"Why should I? You are welcome to know that the gentleman, who was with me, was Mr Maurice Gerald."

The answer causes surprise, and something more. There is a show of scorn, not unmixed with indignation.

There is one on whom it produces a very different effect--the prisoner at the bar--who looks more triumphant than any of his accusers!

"May I ask if this meeting was accidental, or by appointment?"

"By appointment."

"It is a delicate question, Miss Poindexter; you will pardon me for putting it--in the execution of my duty:--What was the nature--the object I should rather term it--of this appointment?"