“All that man said of me is true,” he said.  He gave a toss of his hands as a man throws away the reins.  “I admit all he says.  I am a back number; I am out of date; I was a loafer and a blackguard.  I never shot any man in the back, nor I never assassinated no one; but that’s neither here nor there.  I’m not in a place where I can expect people to pick out their words; but, as he says, I am a bad lot.  He says I have enjoyed a reputation as a desperado.  I am not bragging of that; I just ask you to remember that he said it.  Remember it of me.  I was not the sort to back down to man or beast, and I’m not now.  I am not backing down, now; I’m taking my punishment.  Whatever you please to make it, I’ll take it; and that,” he went on, more slowly, “makes it harder for me to ask what I want to ask, and make you all believe I am not asking it for myself.”

He stopped, and the silence in the room seemed to give him some faint encouragement of sympathy, though it was rather the silence of curiosity.

Colonel Stogart gave a stern look upward, and asked the prisoner’s wife, in a whisper, if she knew what her husband meant to say, but she shook her head.  She did not know.  The District Attorney smiled indulgently at the prisoner and at the men about him, but they were watching the prisoner.

“That man there,” said Barrow, pointing with one gaunt hand at the boy attorney, “told you I had no part or parcel in this city or in this world; that I belonged to the past; that I had ought to be dead.  Now that’s not so.  I have just one thing that belongs to this city and this world—­and to me; one thing that I couldn’t take to jail with me, and that I’ll have to leave behind me when I go back to it.  I mean my wife.”

The prisoner stopped, and looked so steadily at one place below him that those in the back of the court guessed for the first time that Mrs. Barrow was in the room, and craned forward to look at her, and there was a moment of confusion and a murmur of “Get back there!” “Sit still!” The prisoner turned to Judge Truax again and squared his broad shoulders, making the more conspicuous his narrow and sunken chest.

“You, sir,” he said, quietly, with a change from the tone of braggadocio with which he had begun to speak, “remember her, sir, when I married her, twelve years ago.  She was Henry Holman’s daughter, he who owned the San Iago Ranch and the triangle brand.  I took her from the home she had with her father against that gentleman’s wishes, sir, to live with me over my dance-hall at the Silver Star.  You may remember her as she was then.  She gave up everything a woman ought to have to come to me.  She thought she was going to be happy with me; that’s why she come, I guess.  Maybe she was happy for about two weeks.  After that first two weeks her life, sir, was a hell, and I made it a hell.  I was drunk most of the time, or sleeping it off, and ugly-tempered when I