“The spirit and intent of the law, the usages of criminal practice, above all, hoary precedent, before which we bow, each and all sanction your Honor’s ruling; and yet despite everything, the end I sought is already attained.  Is not the refusal of the prisoner proof positive, ‘confirmation strong as proofs of Holy Writ’ of the truth of my theory?  With jealous dread she seeks to lock the clue in her faithful heart, courting even the coffin, that would keep it safe through all the storms of time.  Impregnable in her citadel of silence, with the cohorts of Codes to protect her from escalade and assault, will the guardians of justice have obeyed her solemn commands when they permit the prisoner to light the funeral pyre where she elects to throw herself—­a vicarious sacrifice for another’s sins?  For a nature so exalted, the Providence who endowed it has decreed a nobler fate; and by His help, and that of your twelve consciences, I purpose to save her from a species of suicide, and to consign to the hangman the real criminal.  The evidence now submitted, will be furnished by the testimony of witnesses who, at my request, have been kept without the hearing of the Court.”

He left Beryl’s chair, and once more approached the jury,

“Isam Hornbuckle.”

A negro man, apparently sixty years old, limped into the witness stand, and having been sworn, stood leaning on his stick, staring uneasily about him.

“What is your name?”

“Isam Clay Hornbuckle.”

“Where do you live?”

“Nigh the forks of the road, close to ’Possum Ridge.”

“How far from town?”

“By short cuts I make it about ten miles; but the gang what works the road, calls it twelve.”

“Have you a farm there?”

“Yes’ir.  A pretty tolerable farm; a cornfield and potato patch and gyarden, and parsture for my horgs and oxin, and a slipe of woods for my pine knots.”

“What is your business?”

“Tryin’ to make a livin’, and it keeps me bizzy, for lans is poor, and seasons is most ginerally agin crops.”

“How long have you been farming?”

“Only sence I got mashed up more ’an a year ago on the railroad.”

“In what capacity did you serve when working on the road?”

“I was fireman under ingeneer Walker on the lokymotive ’Gin’l Borygyard,’ what most ginerally hauled Freight No. 2.  The ingines goes now by numbers, but we ole hands called our’n always ’Borygyard’.”

“You were crippled in a collision between two freight trains?”

“Yes’ir; but t’other train was the cause of the—­”

“Never mind the cause of the accident.  You moved out to ’Possum Ridge; can you remember exactly when you were last in town?”

“To be shore!  I know exactly, ’cause it was the day my ole ’oman’s step-father’s granny’s funeral sarmont was preached; and that was on a Thursday, twenty-sixth of October, an’ I come up to ’tend it.”