His defence of Bullock from the attack on him, was forcible and beautiful.  The old man was a hunter, had been a soldier, etc., and the unforgotten Indian battles of the recent war flashed before the jury, and all the sylvan romance of a hunter’s life was reproduced as by magic.

In the second place he contended that Cole made an absolute defense on his claim of title under his deed; no matter though John Williams, Junior, was the bastard of a bastard; his deed was good to make a claim of title under, by the common law of England, and that of every State of the United States; and he read authorities to the Court.

He then showed pretty conclusively that Cole left Connecticut in the spring of 1817, and was not a year and two months on the road; that he came in in 1817, and not in 1818; and this, he said he would demonstrate.  John Fowler, Hiram Fowler’s son, had sworn positively that his father worked for Cole, repairing the fence on the north.  Ward swore to the same; he had told this one bit of truth by some unaccountable accident; so that the plaintiff had also proven that Hiram Fowler had worked for Cole on this land, and hence Cole was in possession of it in the lifetime of Fowler.  When did Fowler die?

“Now,” said Bart, “I will read from this probate record, already put in evidence, but not read,” and he opened and read from the record of the Court, begun and held in the court house at Chardon, for the county of Geauga, commencing April 17, 1818, the appointment of an administrator on the estate of “Hiram Fowler, late deceased, of the township of Newbury, in said county,” and closed the book with a clap.  “Thus this record of absolute verity declares that Hiram Fowler had died before April, 1818, and the plaintiff and defendant both prove that he was alive, after Cole came into this State.  Beyond the possibility of doubt then, Cole came to the possession of this land in 1817, and his title is perfect in law, equity and morality.”

When he closed this part of his case, a murmur almost of open applause ran through the densely packed house.  Here he rested the argument.

In a rapid resume of the case, he seemed to have stumbled upon the two little grass-grown graves of Cole’s children, up under the old maples.  He paused, hesitated, faltered, and stopped, tears came to his eyes, and his lips quivered.  No art could have produced this effect, and a sob broke from many in the court room.  Suddenly resuming, he finished his grouping in a saddened voice, and paused for a moment, sending his eager glance through the court room, till it finally rested on the face of Sam Ward.  Looking at him, in half a dozen sentences, he pilloried him for the scorn and derision of the jury; and then turning to them, in a voice of wonderful sweetness, half sad and regretful, he committed the case to them, and sat down.

A great hum like that of swarming bees, ran through the court house, and men who had looked often into each other’s eyes, looked again, with a joyous sense of relief.