The Regulators rushed to their arms--some towards their horses.

"Indians!" was the exclamation upon every lip, though unheard through the din. Nought but the coming of Comanches could have caused such a commotion--threatening to result in a _stampede_ of the troop!

For a time men ran shouting over the little lawn, or stood silent with scared countenances.

Most having secured their horses, cowered behind them--using them by way of shield against the chances of an Indian arrow.

There were but few upon the ground accustomed to such prairie escapades; and the fears of the many were exaggerated by their inexperience to the extreme of terror.

It continued, till their steeds, all caught up, had ceased their wild whighering; and only one was heard--the wretched creature that had given them the cue.

Then was discovered the true cause of the alarm; as also that the Connemara man had stolen off.

Fortunate for Phelim he had shown the good sense to betake himself to the bushes. Only by concealment had he saved his skin: for his life was now worth scarce so much as that of his master.

A score of rifles were clutched with angry energy,--their muzzles brought to bear upon the old mare.

But before any of them could be discharged, a man standing near threw his lazo around her neck, and choked her into silence.

Tranquillity is restored, and along with it a resumption of the deadly design. The Regulators are still in the same temper.

The ludicrous incident, whilst perplexing, has not provoked their mirth; but the contrary.

Some feel shame at the sorry figure they have cut, in the face of a false alarm; while others are chafed at the interruption of the solemn ceremonial.

They return to it with increased vindictiveness--as proved by their oaths, and angry exclamations.

Once more the vengeful circle closes around the condemned--the terrible tableau is reconstructed.

Once more the ruffians lay hold of the rope; and for the second time every one is impressed with the solemn thought:

"Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its G.o.d!"

Thank heaven, there is another interruption to that stern ceremonial of death.

How unlike to death is that bright form flitting under the shadows,-- flashing out into the open sunlight.

"A woman! a beautiful woman!"

'Tis only a silent thought; for no one essays to speak. They stand rigid as ever, but with strangely altered looks. Even the rudest of them respect the presence of that fair intruder. There is submission in their att.i.tude, as if from a consciousness of guilt.

Like a meteor she pauses through their midst--glides on without giving a glance on either side--without speech, without halt--till she stoops over the condemned man, still lying gagged the gra.s.s.

With a quick clutch she lays hold of the lazo; which the two hangmen, taken by surprise, have let loose.

Grasping it with both her hands, she jerks it from theirs. "Texans!

cowards!" she cries, casting a scornful look upon the crowd. "Shame!

shame!"

They cower under the stinging reproach. She continues:--

"A trial indeed! A fair trial! The accused without counsel--condemned without being heard! And this you call justice? Texan justice? My scorn upon you--not men, but murderers!"

"What means this?" shouts Poindexter, rushing up, and seizing his daughter by the arm. "You are mad--Loo--mad! How come you to be here?

Did I not tell you to go home? Away--this instant away; and do not interfere with what does not concern you!"

"Father, it does concern me!"

"How?--how?--oh true--as a sister! This man is the murderer of your brother."

"I will not--_cannot_ believe it. Never--never! There was no motive.

O men! if you be men, do not act like savages. Give him a fair trial, and then--then--"

"He's had a fair trial," calls one from the crowd, who seems to speak from instigation; "Ne'er a doubt about his being guilty. It's him that's killed your brother, and n.o.body else. And it don't look well, Miss Poindexter--excuse me for saying it;--but it don't look just the thing, that _you_ should be trying to screen him from his deserving."

"No, that it don't," chime in several voices. "Justice must take its course!" shouts one, in the hackneyed phrase of the law courts.

"It must!--it must!" echoes the chorus. "We are sorry to disoblige you, miss; but we must request you to leave. Mr Poindexter, you'd do well to take your daughter away."

"Come, Loo! 'Tis not the place You must come away. You refuse! Good G.o.d! my daughter; do you mean to disobey me? Here, Cash; take hold of her arm, and conduct her from the spot. If you refuse to go willingly, we must use force, Loo. A good girl now. Do as I tell you. Go! Go!"

"No, father, I will not--I shall not--till you have promised--till these men promise--"

"We can't promise you anything, miss--however much we might like it. It ain't a question for women, no how. There's been a crime committed--a murder, as ye yourself know. There must be no cheating of justice.

There's no mercy for a murderer!"

"No mercy!" echo a score of angry voices. "Let him be hanged--hanged-- hanged!"

The Regulators are no longer restrained by the fair presence. Perhaps it has but hastened the fatal moment. The soul of Ca.s.sius Calhoun is not the only one in that crowd stirred by the spirit of envy. The horse hunter is now hated for his supposed good fortune.

In the tumult of revengeful pa.s.sion, all gallantry is forgotten,--that very virtue for which the Texan is distinguished.

The lady is led aside--dragged rather than led--by her cousin, and at the command of her father. She struggles in the hated arms that hold her--wildly weeping, loudly protesting against the act of inhumanity.

"Monsters! murderers!" are the phrases that fall from her lips.

Her struggles are resisted; her speeches unheeded. She is borne back beyond the confines of the crowd--beyond the hope of giving help to him, for whom she is willing to lay down her life!

Bitter are the speeches Calhoun is constrained to hear--heartbreaking the words now showered upon him. Better for him he had not taken hold of her.

It scarce consoles him--that certainty of revenge. His rival will soon be no more; but what matters it? The fair form writhing in his grasp can never be consentingly embraced. He may kill the hero of her heart, but not conquer for himself its most feeble affection!

CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.

STILL ANOTHER INTERLUDE.

For a third time is the tableau reconstructed--spectators and actors in the dread drama taking their places as before.