HE big, square court-room was filled to overflowing when at the last moment Carson and Garner arrived. Just inside the door they found old Dwight standing, his battered silk hat in his hand, and with an air of unwonted humility upon him, patiently awaiting their coming.

“Is everything all right?” he anxiously whispered to Garner, as he reached out and caught his son's hand and held on to it.

“Yes, all right, Mr. Dwight,” Garner replied; “and is—is your wife—”

“Yes, we are safe on that score,” the old man said, encouragingly, to Carson. “I only slipped away for a minute. I won't wait here, but will hurry back and stand guard. God bless you, my boy.” When Dwight had turned towards the door and was moving away, Carson glanced over the crowded room. All eyes were fixed, it seemed to him, anxiously and sympathetically on his face. As he passed through the central aisle to reach the railed-in enclosure where, at his elevated desk, the magistrate sat, gravely consulting with the State solicitor, Carson's mind was gloomily active with the numerous instances in which, to his knowledge, innocent men had been convicted by the complication of circumstantial evidence, in a chair which Braider was solicitously placing near that of Garner, the young man's glance again swept the big room. On the last row of benches sat Linda, Uncle Lewis, and Pete in the company of other negro friends of his. Their fixed and awed facial expressions added to his gloom. Near the railing sat “the gang”—Gordon, Tingle, and Bob Smith—their faces long-drawn. Behind them sat Helen and her father, with Ida Tarpley. Catching Helen's anxious glance, Carson tried to smile lightly as he responded to her bow, but there was something in his act which seemed to him to be empty pretence and rather unworthy of one in his position. Guilty or innocent in the eyes of the law, he told himself he was there to rid his character of the gravest charge that could be made against a human being, and from the indications, as seen by the shrewd Garner, he was not likely to leave the room a free man. He shuddered as he grimly pictured Braider—the feeling, sympathetic Braider—coming to him there before all those eyes and formally placing him under arrest at the order of the court. He sank to the lowest ebb of despair as he pictured his mother's hearing of the news. Almost in a daze Carson sat dumb and blind to the formal proceedings. Like a child, he felt a soothing comfort in the knowledge that he was leaning on such a skilled friend as that of the hardened young lawyer at his side, and yet for the first time in his life he was pitying himself. Things had really gone hard with him. He had tried his best to do the right thing of late, but fate had at last overpowered him. He was losing faith in the impulses which had led him, blind under the blaze of youthful enthusiasm, to that seat here under the cold, accusing eye of the law.

He was drawn out of his lethargy by the clear, ringing, confident voice of the solicitor. It was a strong, an utterly heartless speech, “the gang” thought. Duty to the State and public protection was its key-note. Personally, Mayhew had nothing but the kindliest feeling and strongest admiration for the defendant. He belonged to one of the best and oldest families in the South, and was a man of undaunted courage and remarkable brains. But with all that, Mayhew believed, as he tugged at his heavy mustache and stared with confident eyes at the magistrate, he could show that lurking under the creditable and refined exterior of the defendant was a keenly vindictive nature—a nature that was maddened beyond forbearance by opposition. The solicitor promised to show by competent witnesses, when the matter was brought to trial, that Carson Dwight believed—mark the word believed—without an iota of proof, that Dan Willis had fired upon him in the mob that was attempting to lynch Pete Warren. Believing this, your honor, I say, with no sort of proof, I think the State will have no trouble in establishing the fact that Dwight had sufficient motive for what was done, and that he deliberately and with aforethought went armed with no other intent than to kill Willis. Furthermore, Mayhew could show, he declared, that Dwight had carefully concealed the deed, letting it go out to the world that the finding of the coroner's jury was correct, and making no statement to the contrary till he was driven to it by the encroachments of verifiable rumor and the certainty of adverse action by the grand jury. That being the status of the case, the solicitor could only urge upon the court its duty to hold Carson Dwight on the charge of murder in the first degree.

Deep in his slough of depression, Dwight, looking over the breathless audience, noticed the serious faces he knew and loved. Helen was deathly pale, and her father sat with bowed head, fingering his gold-headed ebony cane. Keith Gordon's face was as full of reproach for what the solicitor had said as that of a grief-stricken woman. Wade Tingle sat flushed with rebellious anger, and Bob Smith, not grasping the full import of the high-sounding words, stared from under his neatly plastered hair like a wondering child at a funeral. It was Mam' Linda's almost savage glare that more firmly fixed Carson's wandering glance. She sat there, her visage full of half-savage passion, her large lip hanging low and quivering, her breast heaving, her eyes gleaming.

Carson had not the heart to follow Garner's weak and inadequate plea as the lawyer stood, his small hands clutched and bloodless behind him. He had not been able, he said, to reach the witnesses he had expected to produce, who would swear that Dan Willis, time after time, had pursued the defendant and made threats against his life, but he felt that a calm statement of Carson Dwight's would be believed, and that—

Here there was a commotion in the room. The bailiff at the door was talking loudly to some one. The magistrate rapped vigorously for order, and in the pause that ensued Pole Baker came striding down the aisle, leading a little woman wearing a black cotton sun-bonnet and dress of the same material. Leaving her standing, Baker approached Garner and whispered in his ear. Then, with a suddenly kindling face, the lawyer turned and whispered to the woman. A moment later he drew himself up to his full height and said, in a clear, confident voice that reached all parts of the room: “Your honor, I have a witness here that I want to have sworn.”

The district-attorney stood up and stared curiously at the woman. “If I'm not mistaken that's Dan Willis's mother,” he said, with a smile. “She is a witness I'm looking for myself.”

“Well, you are welcome to what she'll testify,” Garner dryly retorted.

A moment later the little woman was on the stand, holding her bonnet in her hand, her small, wizened face as colorless as parchment, her black hair brushed as smoothly as patent leather down over her brow and tied in a small, tight knot behind her head.

“Now, Mrs. Willis,” Garner went on, casting a significant glance at Carson, who was gazing at him in growing wonder, “just tell the court in your own way what happened at your house the day your son met his death.”

The room was very still when she began in a low, quivering voice which, gradually steadied itself as she continued.

“Well,” she said, “Mr. Wiggin come to the fence while we-all was eatin' our breakfast, an' called Danny out an' they had a talk near the cow-lot. I don't know what was said, but I was sorry they got together for Mr. Wiggin always upset Danny an' started 'im to drinkin' and rantin' agin Mr. Dwight here in town.”

She paused a moment, and then Garner, leaning easily on the back of his chair, said, encouragingly: “All right, Mrs. Willis, you are doing very well. Now, just go ahead and tell the court all that took place to the best of your recollection.”

“Well, thar wasn't much to recollect that happened right thar at home,” the witness went on, plaintively; “of course, the shootin' tuck place about a mile from thar on the—”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Willis,” Garner interrupted. “You are getting the cart before the horse. I want you to tell his honor how your son acted when he came into the house after his talk with Mr. Wiggin.”

“Why, when Danny fust come in, Mr. Garner, he went to the bureau drawyer and tuck out his revolver an' loaded it thar before us, cussin' at every breath agin Mr. Dwight. I tried to calm 'im down, an' so did my brother George, but he was as nigh crazy as I ever saw any human bein' in my life. He said he was goin' straight to Darley an' kill Carson Dwight, if he had to go to his daddy's house an' drag 'im out of his bed. He said he'd tried it once an' slipped up, but that if he missed again he'd kill hisse'f in disgust.”

“I see, I see,” Garner said, in the pause that ensued. He stroked his smooth chin with his tapering fingers and opened and shut his mouth, and he kept his eyes on the ceiling as if the witness had made the most ordinary sort of statement. He leaned again on the back of his chair, and then lowering his glance to the face of the witness, he asked: “Did you gather from Dan's talk that morning, Mrs. Willis, when it was that he made the first attempt on the life of Carson Dwight?”

“Well, I don't know as I did then,” the woman answered; “but he told us about it the day after he fired the shot.”

“Oh, he did!” Garner's face was still a study of guileless indifference, and he stroked his chin again, his eyes now on the floor, his arms folded across his breast. “What day was that, Mrs. Willis?”

“Why, the day after Mr. Dwight kept the mob from hangin' old Lindy Warren's boy.”

Profound astonishment was now visible on every countenance except that of Garner. “I never knew positively before who fired that shot,” he said, carelessly, “though, of course, I had an idea who did it. So Dan admitted that?”

“Yes, he told us about that, and about tryin' to git at Mr. Dwight several other times.”

“I reckon you are satisfied in your own mind that if Mr. Dwight hadn't defended himself Dan would have killed him?” Garner pursued, adroitly.

“I know he would, Mr. Garner, an' when I heard the report that Danny had shot hisse'f by accident, while he was practisin' with his pistol, I was reconciled to it. I didn't think Mr. Dwight was to blame. I always thought he was doin' the best he could, an' that politics caused the bad blood. I always liked 'im, to tell the truth. I'd heard that he was a friend to the pore an' humble, even to pore old niggers, an' somehow I felt relieved when I heard he'd escaped my boy. I knowed Danny meant murder an' that no good could come of it. I'd a sight ruther know a child of mine was dead an' in the hands of his Maker than tied up in jail waitin' to be publicly hung in the end. No, it is better like it is, though if I may be allowed to say so, I can't for the life of me, understand what you-all have got Mr. Dwight hauled up here like this, when his mother is in sech a delicate condition. Good Lord, he hain't done nothin' to be tried for!”

“That will do, Mrs. Willis,” Garner was heard to say, his voice harshly stirring the emotion-packed stillness of the room; “that will do, unless my brother Mayhew wants to ask you some questions.”

“The State has no case, your honor,” Mayhew said, with a sickly smile. “The truth is, I think we've all been imbibing too freely of politics. I confess I've listened to Wiggin myself. It looks like, failing to get Dan Willis to kill Dwight, he's set about trying to have it done by law. Your honor, the State is out of the case.”

There was a pause of astonishment and then the truth burst upon the audience. Realizing that Carson Dwight was more than a free man, vindicated, restored to them, “the gang” rose as a man and yelled. Led by Pole Baker and the enthusiastic Braider, they pressed around him, climbing over the railing and crushing chairs to splinters. Then, amid the shouts and glad tears of the spectators, the most popular man in the county was raised perforce upon the stout shoulders of Baker and Braider and borne down the aisle towards the door.

Above the heads of all, Carson, flushed with confusion, glanced over the room. Immediately in front of him stood Helen. She was looking straight and eagerly at him, her face aglow, her eyes filled with tears. She paused with her father just outside the door, and as “the gang” bore their struggling and protesting hero past, she raised her hand to him. Blushing in fresh embarrassment, he took it, only to have it torn from him the next instant.

“Let me down, Pole!” he cried.

“No, sir, we don't let you down!” Pole shouted. “We've got it in for you. We are goin' to lynch you!”

The crowd, appreciating the joke, thereupon raised the queerest cry that ever burst from breasts surcharged with joy.

“Lynch him!” they yelled. “Lynch him!”

Half an hour afterwards Carson went home. His father was at the fence looking for him. He had heard the news and his old face was beaming with joy as he opened the gate for his son and took him into his arms.

“How's mother?” was Carson's first inquiry.

“She's all right and she knows, too?”

“She knows!” Carson exclaimed, aghast.

“Yes, old Mrs. Parsons was the first to bring me the news, and she assured me she could impart it to your mother in such a way as not to shock her at all.”

“And you let her?” Carson said, anxiously.

“Yes, and she did the slickest piece of work I ever heard of. I knew she was considered a wonderful woman, but she's the smoothest article I ever met. I laughed till I cried. I was in the mood for laughing, anyway. Mrs. Parsons began by adroitly working your mother up to such a pitch of fury against Willis for his nagging pursuit of you that your mother could have shot him herself, and then, in an off-hand way, Mrs. Parsons led on to the meeting between you. Willis had his gun in your face, and was about to pull the trigger, when your pistol went off and saved your life. She went on to say that Dan's mother had just been to the court-house testifying that her son had tried to murder you, and that she didn't blame you in the slightest. I declare, Mrs. Parsons actually made it appear that Willis was on trial instead of you. Anyway, it's all right. We've got nothing to fear now.”