The trial did go on, rapidly, without quibbling, indeed without much regard for the formalities of the law.  The jury had been selected before Franklin made his appearance, and he was given to understand that this jury was good enough for him, and was the one before which this prisoner should be tried.  A formal motion for the discharge of the prisoner was overruled.  Without much delay the prosecuting attorney arose to present his charge.

“Yo’ Honah,” said the attorney for the State, arising and striking an attitude learned in earlier forensic days—­“yo Honah, an’ gentlemen, I rise to present to you, an’ to push to the ultimate penalty of the law, a case of the most serious, the most heinyus crime, committed by the most desperate and dangerous criminal, that has thus far ever disturbed the peaceful course of ouah quiet little community.  There he sets befo’ you,” he cried, suddenly raising his voice and pointing a forefinger at the prisoner, who sat smiling amiably.  “There he sets, the hardened and self-confessed criminal, guilty of the foulest crime upon the calendar of ouah law.  A murderer, gentlemen, a murderer with red hands an’ with the brand of Cain upon his brow!  This man, this fiend, killed ouah fellow-citizen Calvin Greathouse—­he brutally murdered him.  Not content with murder, he attempted to destroy his body with fiah, seekin’ thus to wipe out the record of his crime.  But the fiah itself would not destroy the remains of that prince of men, ouah missin’ friend an’ brother!  His corpse cried out, accusin’ this guilty man, an’ then an’ there this hardened wretch fell abjeckly onto his knees an’ called on all his heathen saints to save him, to smite him blind, that he might no mo’ see, sleepin’ or wakin’, the image of that murdered man—­that murdered man, ouah friend an’ brother, ouah citizen an’ friend.”

The orator knew his audience.  He knew the real jury.  The shuffling and whispers were his confirmation.

“Yo’ Honah,” began the accusing voice again, “I see him now.  I see this prisoner, this murderer, the central figger of that wild an’ awful scene.  He falls upon his knees, he wrings his hands, he supplicates high Heaven—­that infinite Powah which gave life to each of us as the one most precious gift—­he beseeches Providence to breathe back again into that cold clay the divine spark of which his red hand had robbed it.  Useless, useless!  The dead can not arise.  The murdered man can remain to accuse, but he can not arise again in life, He can not again hear the songs of birds.  He can not again hear the prattle of his babes.  He can not again take a friend by the hand.  He can not come to life.  The heavens do not open fo’ that benef’cent end!