University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

The village of Chestatee was crowded with
visiters of all descriptions. Judges and lawyers,
soldiers and citizens and farmers—all classes were
duly represented, and a more wholesome and subordinate
disposition in that quarter, may be inferred
as duly resulting from the combination. Curiosity
brought many to the spot from portions of country
twenty, thirty, and even forty miles off—for, usually
well-provided with good horses, the southron finds
a difference of ten or twenty miles no great matter.
Such had been the reputation of the region
here spoken of, not less for its large mineral wealth
than for the ferocious character of those in its
neighbourhood, that numbers, who would not otherwise
have adventured, now gladly took advantage
of the great excitement, and presence of so many,
to look themselves upon a section of which they had
heard so long and so much. There came the planter,
of rather more wealth than his neighbours, solicitous
for some excitement and novelty to keep himself
from utter stagnation. There came the farmer,
discontented with his present abiding-place, and in
search of a new spot of more promise, in which to
drive stakes and do better. The lawyer, from a
neighbouring county, in search of a cause; and the
creditor in search of his runaway debtor—the

judge and the jury also added something, not less to
the number than the respectability of the throng.

The grand jury had found a number of bills, and
most of them for the more aggravated offences in
the estimation of the law. Rivers, Munro, Blundell,
Forrester, were all severally and collectively
included in their inquiries; but as none of the parties
were to be found, for the present at least, and
as one of them had been removed to another and
higher jurisdiction, the case of most importance
left remaining was that which charged Colleton
with Forrester's murder. There was no occasion
for delay; and, in gloomy and half desponding
mood, though still erect and unshrinking to the eye
of the beholder, Ralph refused the privilege of a
traverse, and instructed Pippin to go on with the
case. The lawyer himself had not the slightest
objection to this procedure, for, not to be harsh in
our estimate of his humanities, there is no reason to
believe that he regarded for a single instant the
value of his client's life, but as its preservation was
to confer credit upon his capacity as his legal friend
and adviser. The issue was consequently made
up without delay—the indictment was read, and
the prisoner put himself upon God and the country,
according to the usual forms, and the case proceeded.

The general impression of the spectators was
decidedly in favour of the accused. His youth—
the noble bearing—the ease, the unobtrusive confidence—the
gentle expression, pliant and, though
sad, yet entirely free from any thing like desponding
weakness—all told in his favour. He was a
fine specimen of the southern aristocrat—the true
nobleman of that region, whose pride of character
is never seen, and is only to be felt in the influence
which it invariably exercises over all with whom

it may have contact or connexion. Though firm
in every expression, and manly in every movement,
there was nothing in the habit and appearance
of Ralph, which, to the eye of those around,
savoured of the murderer. There was nothing
ruffianly or insincere. But, as the testimony proceeded—when
the degree of intimacy was shown
which had existed between himself and the murdered
man—when they heard that Forrester had
brought him wounded and fainting to his home—
had attended him—had offered even to fight for him
with Rivers.—When all these facts were developed,
in connexion with the sudden flight of the person
so befriended—on the same night with him who
had befriended him—he having a knowledge of the
proposed departure of the latter, and with the finding
of the bloody dagger marked with the youth's
initials—this feeling very perceptibly underwent a
change. The people, proverbially fickle, veered
round to the opposite extreme of opinion, and a
confused buzz around, sometimes made sufficiently
audible to all senses, indicated the unfavourable
character of the change. The witnesses were
closely examined, and the story was complete and
admirably coherent. The presumptions, as they
were coupled together, were conclusive; and, when
it was found that not a solitary witness came forward
even to say that the accused was a man of
character and good connexions—a circumstance
which could not materially have affected the testimony
as it stood, but which, wanting, gave it additional
force—the unhappy youth, himself, felt that
all was over. A burning flush, succeeded by a
deathlike paleness, came over his face for a moment;—construed
by those around into a consciousness
of guilt—for, where the prejudices of men become
active, all appearances of change which go
not to affect the very foundation of the bias, are only
additional proofs of what they have before believed.
He rested his head upon his united hands in deep
but momentary agony. What were his feelings
then? With warm, pure emotions—with a pride,
only limited by a true sense of propriety—with an
ambition, whose eye was sunward ever—with affections
which rendered life doubly desirable, and
which made love a high and holy aspiration—with
these several and predominating feelings struggling
in his soul, to be told of such a doom—to be stricken
from the respect of his fellows—to forfeit life, and
love, and reputation—to undergo the punishment
of the malefactor, and to live in memory only as a
felon—ungrateful, foolish, fiendish—a creature of
dishonest passions, and mad and merciless in their
exercise. The tide of thought, which bore to his
consciousness all these harrowing convictions, was
sudden as the wing of the lightning, and nearly
shattered, in that single instant, the towering manhood
whose high reachings had attracted it. But
the pride consequent to his education and the society
in which he had lived, came to his relief; and
after the first dreadful agony of soul, he again
stood erect, and listened, seemingly unmoved, to
the defences set up by his counsel. But how idle,
even to his mind, desirous as he must have been of
every species of defence, were all the vainglorious
mouthings of the pettifogger. He soon discovered
that the ambition of Pippin chiefly consisted
in the utterance of his speech. He saw, too, in a
little while, that the nonsense of the lawyer had
not even the solitary merit—if such it be—of being
extemporaneous; and in the slow and monotonous
delivery of a long string of stale truisms, not bearing
any analogy to the case in hand, he perceived
the dull elaborations of the closet. But such was
not the estimate of the lawyer himself. He knew
what he was about; and having satisfied himself
that the case was utterly hopeless, he was only solicitous
that the people should see that he could still
make a speech. He well knew that his auditory,
perfectly assured with himself of the hopelessness
of the defence, would give him the credit of having
made the most of his materials, and this was all he
wanted. In the course of his exhortations, however,
he was unfortunate enough to make an admission
for his client which was, of itself, fatal; and
his argument thence became unnecessary. He
admitted that the circumstances sufficiently established
the charge of killing, but proceeded, however,
to certain liberal assumptions, without any
ground whatever of provocation on the part of
Forrester, which made his murder only matter of
self-defence on the side of the accused, whose
crime, therefore, became justifiable; but Ralph,
who had for some time been listening with manifest
impatience to sundry misrepresentations, not
equally evil with this, but almost equally annoying,
now rose and interrupted him; and though the proceeding
was something informal, proceeded to correct
the statement.

“No one, may it please your honour, and you,
gentlemen, now presiding over my fate, can be
more conscious than myself, from the nature of the
evidence given in this case, of the utter hopelessness
of any defence which may be offered on my
behalf. But, while recognising, in their fullest
force, the strong circumstantial proofs of crime
which you have heard, I may be permitted to deny
for myself what my counsel has been pleased to
admit for me. To say that I have not been guilty
of this crime, is only to repeat that which was said
when I threw myself upon the justice of the country.

I denied any knowledge of it then—I deny
any knowledge of, or participation in it, now. I
am not guilty of this killing, whether with or without
justification. The blood of the unfortunate
man, Forrester, is not upon my hands; and whatever
may be your decree this day, of this sweet
consciousness nothing can deprive me.

“I consider, may it please your honour, that my
counsel, having virtually abandoned my cause, I
have the right to go on with it myself—”

But here Pippin, who had been dreadfully impatient
heretofore, started forward, with evident
alarm.

“Oh, no—no, your honour—my client—Mr. Colleton—how
can you think such a thing? I have
not, your honour, abandoned the case—on the contrary,
your honour will remember, that it was while
actually proceeding with the case that I was interrupted.”

The youth, with a singular degree of composure,
replied:—

“Your honour will readily understand me,
though the gentleman of the bar does not. I conceive
him not only to have abandoned the case,
your honour, but actually to have joined hand and
hand with the prosecuting counsel. It is true, sir,
that he still calls himself my counsel—and still,
under that name, presumes to harangue, as he alleges,
in my behalf; but, when he violates the
truth, not less than my instructions—when he declares
all that is alleged against me in that paper to
be true—all of which I declare to be false—when
he admits me to be guilty of a crime of which I am
not guilty—I say that he has not only abandoned
my case, but that he has betrayed the trust reposed
in him. What, your honour, must the jury infer
from the confession which he has just made?

What!—but that in my conference with him I have
made the same confession? It becomes necessary,
therefore, may it please your honour, not only that I
take from him, thus openly, the power which I confided
to him, but that I call upon your honour to
demand from him, upon oath, whether such an admission
was ever made to him by me. I know
that my own words will avail me nothing here—I
also know why they should not—but I am surely
entitled to require that he should speak out as to
the truth, when his misrepresentations are to make
weight against me in future. His oath, that I made
no such confession to him, will avail nothing for my
defence, but will avail greatly with those who, from
present appearances, are likely to condemn me. I
call upon him, may it please your honour, as matter
of right, that he should be sworn to this particular.
This, your honour will perceive, if my
assertion be true, is the smallest justice which he
can do me; beyond this I will ask and suggest nothing—leaving
it to your own mind how far the
license of his profession should be permitted to one,
who thus not only abandons, but betrays and misrepresents
his client.”

The youth was silent, and Pippin rose to speak
in his defence. Without being sworn, he admitted
freely that such a confession had not been made, but
that he had inferred the killing from the nature of
the testimony, which he thought conclusive on the
point. That his object had been to suggest a probable
difficulty between the parties, in which he
would have shown Forrester as the aggressor.
He bungled on for some time longer in this manner,
but as he digressed again into the defence of
the accused, Ralph again begged to interrupt him.

“I think it important, may it please your honour,
that the gentleman should be sworn as to the simple

fact which he has uttered. I want it on record,
that, at some future day, the few who have any interest
in my fate should feel no mortifying doubts
of my innocence, when reminded of the occurrence—which
this strange admission, improperly
circulated, might otherwise occasion. Let him
swear, your honour, to the fact; this, I think, I may
require.”

After a few moments of deliberation, his honour
decided that the demand was one of right, strictly
due, not merely to the prisoner, and to the abstract
merits of the circumstance, but also to the necessity
which such an event clearly created, of establishing
certain governing principles for restraining
those holding situations so responsible, who should
so far wilfully betray their trusts. The lawyer was
made to go through the humiliating process, and
then subjected to a sharp reprimand from the judge;
who, indeed, might have well gone further, in actually
striking his name from the rolls of court.

It was just after this interesting period in the history
of the trial, and when Pippin, who could not
be made to give up the case, as Ralph had required,
was endeavouring to combat with the attorney of
the State some incidental points of doctrine, and to
resist their application to certain parts of the previously
recorded testimony, that our heroine, Lucy
Munro, attended by her trusty squire, Bunce,
made her appearance in the court-house.

She entered the hall more dead than alive. The
fire was no longer in her eye—a thick haze had
overspread its usually rich and lustrous expression
—her form trembled with the emotion—the strong
and struggling emotion of her soul—and fatigue
had done much towards the general enervation of
her person. The cheek was pale with the innate
consciousness—the lips were blanched, and slightly

parted, as if wanting in the muscular exercise which
could bring them together. She tottered forward
to the stand upon which the witnesses were usually
assembled, and to which her course had been directed,
and for a few moments after her appearance
in the court-room, her progress had been as
one stunned by a sudden and severe blow. But,
when roused by the confused hum of human voices
around her, she ventured to look up, and her eye, as
if by instinct, turned upon the dark box assigned for
the accused—she again saw the form, in her mind
and eye, of almost faultless mould and excellence,
—and then there was no more weakness—no more
struggle. Her eye kindled—the colour rushed
into her cheeks—a sudden spirit re-invigorated her
frame—and with clasped hands she boldly ascended
the small steps which led to the stand from which
her evidence was to be given, and declared her
ability, in low tones, almost unheard but by the
judge, to furnish matter of interest and importance
to the defence. Some little demur as to the formality
of such a proceeding, after the evidence had
been fairly closed, took place between the counsel;
but, fortunately for justice, the judge was too wise
and too good a man to limit the course of truth to
prescribed rules, which could not be affected by a
departure, in the present instance, from their restraints.
The objection was overruled, and the
bold, but yet trembling girl, was called upon for her
testimony.

A new hope had been breathed into the bosoms
of the parties most concerned, on the appearance
of this interruption to the headlong and impelling
force of the circumstances so fatally arrayed
against the prisoner. The pedler was overjoyed,
and concluded that the danger was now
safely over. The youth himself felt his spirit

much lighter in his bosom, although he himself
knew not the extent of that testimony in his favour
which Lucy was enabled to give. He only knew
that she could account for his sudden flight on the
night of the murder, leading to a fair presumption
that he had not premeditated such an act; and
knew not that it was in her power to overthrow
the only feature in the circumstances shown against
him, by which they had been so connected as to
make out his supposed guilt.

Sanguine herself that this power was in her
to effect the safety of the accused, Lucy had not
for a moment considered the effect upon others,
more nearly connected with her than the youth, of
the development. These considerations were yet
to come.

The oath was administered,—she began her narration,
but, at the very outset, the difficulties of her
situation beset her. How was she to save the man
she loved? How—but by showing the guilt of her
uncle? How was she to prove that the dirk of the
youth was not in his possession at the time of the
murder? By showing that just before that time it
was in the possession of Munro, who was setting
forth for the express purpose of murdering the man,
now accused and held guilty of the crime. The
fearful gathering of thoughts and images, thus
without preparation working in her mind, again
destroyed the equilibrium by which her truer senses
would have enforced her determination to proceed.
Her head swam—her words were confused and
incoherent, and perpetually contradictory. The
hope which her presence had inspired as suddenly
departed; and pity and doubt were the prevailing
sentiments of the spectators. After several ineffectual
efforts to proceed, she all at once seemed
informed of the opinions around her, and gathering

new courage from the dreadful thought now forcing
itself upon her mind, that what she had said had
done nothing towards her object—she exclaimed
impetuously, advancing to the judge, and speaking
alternately from him to the jury and the counsel,—

“He is not guilty of this crime, believe me. I
may not say what I know—I cannot—you would
not expect me to reveal it. It would involve others
whom I dare not name. I must not say that—
but believe me, Mr. Colleton is not guilty—he did
not commit the murder—it was somebody else
—I know, I will swear he had no hand in the
matter.”

“Very well, my good girl—I have no doubt
you think, and honestly believe all that you say;
but what reasons have you for this bold assertion
in the teeth of all the testimony which has already
been given? You must not be surprised if we are
slow in believing what you tell us, until you can
show upon what grounds you stand forth in his
behalf. Do not be terrified—speak freely—officer!
a chair for the lady—tell us all that you know—
keep nothing back—remember, you are sworn to
speak the truth—the whole truth.”

The judge spoke kindly and encouragingly,
while, with considerable emphasis, he insisted upon
a full statement of all she knew. But the distress
of the poor girl increased with every moment of
thought, which warned of the predicament in
which such a statement must necessarily involve
her uncle.

“Oh, how can I speak all this? How can I tell
that which must destroy him—”

“Of whom do you speak, lady. Who is he?”
inquired the attorney of the state.

“He—who?—Oh, no, I can say nothing, I can
tell you nothing. I know nothing but that Mr.

Colleton is not guilty. He struck no blow at Forrester.
I am sure of it—some other hand—some
other person. How can you believe that he would
do so?”

There was no such charitable thought for him,
however, in the mind of those who heard—as how
should there be? A whispering dialogue now took
place between the judge and the counsel, in which,
while they evidently looked upon her as little better
than demented with her love for the accused, they
still appeared to hold it due to justice, not less than
to humanity, to obtain from her every particular of
testimony bearing on the case, which, by possibility,
she might really have in her possession. Not
that they really believed that she knew any thing
which might avail the prisoner. Regarding her as
individually and warmly interested in his life, they
looked upon her appearance, and the evidence
which she tendered—if so it might be styled—as
solely intended to provoke sympathy, gain time,
or possibly, as the result of feelings so deeply excited
as to have utterly passed the bounds of all
restraining reason. The judge himself, who was
a good, not less than a sensible man, undertook, in
concluding this conference, to pursue the examination
himself, with the view to the bringing out
such portions of her information as delicacy or
some other more influential motive might persuade
her to conceal.

“You are sure, Miss Munro, of the innocence of
the prisoner—so sure that you are willing to swear
to it. Such is your conviction, at least; for, unless
you saw the blow given by another hand, or could
prove Mr. Colleton to have been elsewhere at the
time of the murder, of course you could not, of a
certainty, swear to any such fact. You are not
now to say whether you believe him capable of

such an act or not. You are to say whether you
know of any circumstances which shall acquit him
of the charge, or furnish a plausible reason, why
others, not less than yourself, should have a like
reason with yourself to believe so. Can you do
this, Miss Munro? Can you show any thing in
this chain of circumstances against him which, of
your own knowledge, you can say to be untrue?
Speak out, young lady, and rely upon every indulgence
from the court.”

Here the judge recapitulated all the evidence
which had been furnished against the prisoner.
The maiden listened with close attention, and the
difficulties of her situation became more and more
obvious. Finding her slow to answer, though her
looks were certainly full of meaning, the presiding
officer took another course for the object which
he had in view. He now proceeded to her examination
in the following form.

“You know the prisoner?”

“I do.”

“You knew the murdered man?”

“Perfectly.”

“Were they frequently together since the appearance
of the prisoner in these regions?”

“Frequently.”

“At the house in which you dwell?”

“Yes.”

“Were they together on the day preceding the
night of the murder?”

“They were—throughout the better portion of
it.”

“Did they separate at your place of residence,
and what was the employment of the prisoner
subsequently on the same day?”

“They did separate while at our house, Mr.

Colleton retiring at an early hour of the evening
to his chamber.”

“So far, Miss Munro, your answers correspond
directly with the evidence, and now come the important
portions. You will answer briefly and
distinctly. After that, did you see any thing more
of the prisoner, and know you of his departure
from the house—the hour of the night—the occasion
of his going—and the circumstances attending
it?”

These questions were indeed all important to the
female delicacy of the maiden, and as her eye sunk
in confusion, and as her cheek paled and kindled
with the innate consciousness, the youth, who had
hitherto been silent, now rose, and without the
slightest pause or hesitancy of manner, requested
of the maiden that she would say no more.

“See you not, your honour, that her mind wavers—that
she speaks and thinks wildly. I am
satisfied that though she might say something, your
honour, in accounting for my strange flight, yet, as
that constitutes but a small feature in the circumstances
against me, what she can allege will avail
me little. Press her no farther, therefore, I entreat
you. Let her retire. Her word can do me
no good, and I would not that, for my sake and
life, she should feel, for a single instant, an embarrassment
of spirit, which, though it be honourable in
its character, must necessarily be distressing in its
exercise. Proceed with your judgment, I pray
you—whatever it may be—I am now ready for
the worst, and though innocent as the babe unborn
of the crime urged against me, I am not afraid to
meet its consequences. I am not unwilling to
die.”

“But you must not die—they will not—they
cannot find you guilty! How know they you

are guilty? Who dares say you are guilty, when
I know you are innocent. Did I not see you fly?
Did I not send you on your way—was it not to
escape from murder yourself that you flew, and how
should you have been guilty of that crime of which
you were the destined victim yourself. Oh, no—
no! you are not guilty—and the dagger—I heard
that!—that is not true—Oh no, the dagger—you
dropt it—”

The eye of the inspired girl was caught by a
glance—a single glance—from one at the opposite
corner of the court-room, and that glance brought
her back to the full consciousness of the fearful
development she was about to make. A decrepit
old woman, resting with bent form upon a staff
which was planted firmly before her, seemed wrapt
in the general interest pervading the court. The
woman was huge of frame and rough of make;
her face was large and swollen, and the tattered
cap and bonnet, the soiled and coarse materials
which she wore, indicated one of the humblest
caste in the country. Her appearance attracted
no attention, and she was unmarked by all around;
few having eyes for any thing but the exciting
business under consideration. But the disguise did
not conceal her uncle from the glance of his niece.
That one look had the desired effect—the speech
was arrested before its conclusion, and the spectators,
now more than ever assured of the very partial
sanity of the witness, gave up any doubts
which had previously manifested themselves in behalf
of the accused. A second look of the landlord
was emphatic enough for the purpose of completely
silencing her farther evidence. She read in its
fearful expression, as plainly as if spoken in words
—“The next syllable you utter is fatal to your uncle
—your father. Now speak, woman, if you can.”

For a single moment she was dumb and stationary—her
eye turned from her uncle to the prisoner.
Horror, and the agonies natural to the strife
in her bosom, were in its wild expression, and, with
a single cry of “I cannot—I must not save him,”
from her pallid lips, she sunk down senseless
upon the hard floor, and was borne out by several
of the more sympathizing spectators.

There was nothing now to delay the action of
the court. The counsel had closed with the argument,
and the judge proceeded in his charge to the
jury. His remarks were rather favourable than
otherwise to the prisoner. He dwelt upon his
youth—his manliness—the seeming excellence of
his education, and the propriety which had marked
his whole behaviour on trial. These he spoke of
as considerations which must, of course, make the
duty which they had to perform more severely
painful to all. Still, he could not do away with
the strong and tenacious combination of circumstances
against him. They were closely knit, and
all tended strongly to the conviction of the guilt
of the accused. Still they were circumstantial;
and the doubts of the jury were, of course, so many
arguments on the side of mercy. He concluded.
But the jury had no doubts. How should they
doubt? They deliberated, indeed, for form sake, but
not long. In a little while they returned to their
place, and the verdict was read by the clerk.

“Guilty.”

“Guilty,” responded the prisoner, and for a moment
his head dropped upon the clasped hands,
and his frame shivered as with an ague. “Guilty
—guilty—Oh, my father—Edith—Edith—have I
lived for this?” There was no other sign of human
weakness. He arose with composure, and
followed, with firm step, the officer to his dungeon.

His only thought was of the sorrows and the
shame of others—of those of whom he had been
the passion, and the pride—of that father's memory
and name, of whom he had been the cherished hope
—of that maiden of whom he had been the cherished
love. His firm, manly bearing won the esteem
of all those who, nevertheless, at the same
moment, had few if any doubts of the justice of
his doom.