The fall term of court was now in session, and Milton Derr was put on trial for his life.

The case, deeply tinged with romance and mystery, aroused a lively and unusual interest, both in the town and county, and during the progress of the trial the courtroom was crowded with interested spectators.

While the prisoner had seemed at first both careless and indifferent regarding his fate, now, since his interview with his former sweetheart, he began to feel a strong and urgent desire to prove his innocence, and to do what he could to help clear the mystery of the murder.

The girl had given him a point to unravel.

"Do you remember telling me that a horseman came down the road the night you were near the Squire's gate?" she asked of Derr on her second visit to the jail.

"Yes, it was the fear of meeting this horseman, and perhaps being recognized by him in the lightning's sudden glare, that led me to quit the highway and take to the fields."

"Well, that horseman never passed me, and I feel sure he never passed through the New Pike gate," said Sally, thoughtfully. "I waited in the road some little time, hoping you would turn back, and even after I had gone to bed it was a long time before I fell asleep. I heard no sound of passing. Whoever that rider was, he stopped at, or near Squire Bixler's place, and came no further. If we could manage to find out who this person was, the mystery of the murder might be solved."

There was little evidence to be introduced on either side during the progress of the trial, and what little there was helped to weigh against the prisoner. His movements at Grigg's Station were those of a man striving to avoid notice, indeed, his whole bearing before and after his arrest was that of a guilty person seeking to make good his escape.

The accused offered no explanation of his presence at the station, where he was on the point of buying a ticket to the West when arrested. To have done so he would have had to disclose his connection with the raiders, the cause of his flight and return, and his presence in the immediate neighborhood of his uncle's farm on that fatal night.

He was in an unfortunate position, it seemed, when everything appeared to work to his disadvantage, and help throw suspicion on his movements, and yet he dared not turn the needed light on them. He knew he was safe, so far as Sally was concerned, in regard to meeting her at the toll-gate, and the idle threats he had uttered against the Squire in the first heat of passion and jealousy.

His enmity toward his uncle was too well known, however, to escape comment, and was easily proven, along with sundry angry words he had uttered against his kinsman when first he had left his uncle's roof, words that had lost nothing of their sharpness by the lapse of time, and were now repeated with such embellishments that even the speaker had difficulty in recalling or recognizing the original form in which they had been first uttered.

Moreover, the great benefits that the nephew would derive from his uncle's death, should it occur before a marriage could take place, were clearly brought forth, and a strong incentive shown for the commission of such a deed, at the especial time it occurred—the eve of the Squire's wedding.

When the evidence had been gathered—it was scant enough at best, and sadly damaging,—the case was presented to the jury by the speakers on each side, with facts so skilfully juggled, now and then, that an impartial listener would scarcely know how to place them aright.

Sometimes flowery rhetorical effects were used where facts were few, that words might count instead, until there seemed never to have lived so just, upright and beloved a man as the squire, or so damnable and blood-thirsty a villain as his nephew.

Sally came to court each day, along with Sophronia and her father. The three sat anxiously throughout the trial, hopeful and despondent by turns, as the prisoner was upheld or denounced, one hearer, at least, never wavering in the belief of his innocence from beginning to end.

Late one afternoon the case was finished and submitted to the jury, but scarcely a soul quitted the courtroom, so deep an interest was felt, each one remaining, impatiently waiting for the verdict, which might come early or late, no man knew.

When the doors had closed upon the retiring jury, the Judge picked up a newspaper on his desk, and leaning back in his chair began to read, while Sally, noting the act, wondered within herself how one could seem so calm and indifferent, when a man's very life hung trembling in the scales of justice. Her own brain was in a whirl of excitement and anxiety. She was scarcely able to think connectedly, and to her narrowed range of thought it seemed the very world must pause in anxiety while so weighty a matter was in the balance.

The afternoon grew on apace. The dull gray shadows within the corners of the courtroom deepened and spread until the rows of expectant faces became a blurred and indistinct mass, except where the bands of light, falling through the windows, gave them a certain ashen pallor.

Once or twice Mr. Saunders moved uneasily in his seat. He knew it was growing late, with many things at home demanding his attention—the stock to be fed, the horses watered, the night's chores to be done—yet he felt he could not pull himself away until he had heard some message from the jury room, either of good or evil.

The others waited, too. A vague hum of voices talking in low undertones gradually overcame the quiet that had fallen on the waiting crowd, and from time to time anxious and impatient glances were shot toward the closed doors, through which the jury were to come.

The gray evening shadows without, presaging the approach of night, perhaps the prisoner's doom, silently crept into the room, mingling with the gloomier shadows within the building. Presently the janitor came and lighted some ill-smelling lamps, one upon the Judge's desk, the others clinging to the grimy walls, and soon these lights began to struggle through the smoky chimneys, striving against the deepening shadows in unequal battle, as the good frequently combats with the evil in our natures.

At last, after interminable hours of suspense, it seemed to the waiting girl, the slow tramp—tramp—of the jury down the stairway from the room above, struck her expectant ear like the doleful tread of a funeral procession. Nearer and nearer came the sound, then the courtroom doors were thrown open, and the twelve men entered, two by two, and quietly took their places in the jury box.

The Judge had laid aside his paper, and was leaning attentively on the desk, while every neck was craned forward in eager expectancy. A profound hush fell, and each ear was bent to hear the verdict, whose grave import many already guessed. Those in the rear of the room were tiptoeing and peering anxiously over the heads of the ones in front, while a few who had been waiting on the outside of the building now hurried in and pressed quickly forward.

Sally sat immovable, her hands clenched tightly in an agony of cruel suspense, her heart-throbs sounding in her ears like funeral bells, her face immobile as stone. She had given one swift, piercing look toward the jury as they entered, as if to read in advance the verdict they had brought, and the grave, stern faces she saw froze her very heart with the dire import of that verdict. From the jury her eyes had centered on the prisoner, who had lifted his head, and was calmly awaiting the words that were to give him freedom, or—he dared not think further—life had suddenly grown very sweet to him.

The clear voice of the judge broke in upon the profound silence that had fallen on the entrance of the jury:

"Gentlemen, have you found a verdict?"

"We have," the foreman answered.

"The Court is ready to hear it."

The foreman stepped forward, and, clearing his throat, began to speak: "Your Honor we, the jury, find the prisoner is"—

A slight commotion made itself manifest at the door of the courtroom. The judge cast an inquiring glance in its direction, and rapping sharply on his desk cried out:

"Silence in Court!"

The noise increased. A voice was heard calling, "Hold! Hold!"

At the sound, Sophronia turned quickly and looked in the direction whence it came. Billy West was calling out, and pressing through the crowd, holding aloft a legal-looking document which he waved excitedly toward the judge.

"Hold, your Honor!" he cried again. "Stay the proceedings of the Court! An innocent man is on trial! I have here a sworn confession from the one who killed Squire Bixler. It was Steve Judson. Steve was shot about noon to-day by Jade Beddow, who was also killed in the fight. Steve sent for me to come an' bring a notary public along.

"Here is Steve's dyin' statement. Squire Bixler owed him some money and refused to pay it. Steve went to his house that night to collect it, and in a quarrel that followed, he stabbed the Squire. Milton Derr had nothin' to do with the crime. He's innocent!"

The excited messenger strode forward and thrust the paper he carried into the outstretched hand of the Judge. A wave of surprise swept over the courtroom, and the murmur of voices grew louder until it finally broke into a loud cheer of victory for the prisoner.

After the introduction of this new testimony, the jury promptly retired, and in a few moments brought in a verdict of "Not guilty."

In all the confusion that arose with the clamor of many voices around him, Milton Derr seemed to hear but one faint voice close to his ear, to feel the pressure of one gentle hand alone, to look into but one pair of tender, truthful eyes—all the rest was but a blurred and indistinct memory.