by Slack and Sissel and followed by Kraut and Swenk—yet
protected on either side by two extra deputies in case there
should be an outbreak or demonstration of any kind—Clyde
himself, attempting to look as jaunty and nonchalant as
possible, yet because of the many rough and strange faces
about him—men in heavy racoon coats and caps, and with
thick whiskers, or in worn and faded and nondescript
clothes such as characterized many of the farmers of this
region, accompanied by their wives and children, and all
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staring so strangely and curiously—he felt not a little
nervous, as though at any moment there might be a
revolver shot, or some one might leap at him with a knife—
the deputies with their hands on their guns lending not a
little to the reality of his mood. Yet only cries of: “Here he
comes! Here he comes!”“There he is!”“Would you believe
that he could do a thing like that?”
And then the cameras clicking and whirring and his two
protectors shouldering closer and closer to him while he
shrank down within himself mentally.
And then a flight of five brown stone steps leading up to an
old courthouse door. And beyond that, an inner flight of
steps to a large, long, brown, high-ceilinged chamber, in
which, to the right and left, and in the rear facing east, were
tall, thin, round-topped windows, fitted with thin panes,
admitting a flood of light. And at the west end, a raised
platform, with a highly ornamental, dark brown carved
bench upon it. And behind it, a portrait—and on either side,
north and south, and at the rear, benches and benches in
rows—each tier higher than the other, and all crowded with
people, the space behind them packed with standing
bodies, and all apparently, as he entered, leaning and
craning and examining him with sharp keen eyes, while
there went about a conversational buzz or brrh. He could
hear a general sssss—pppp—as he approached and
passed through a gate to an open space beyond it,
wherein, as he could see, were Belknap and Jephson at a
table, and between them a vacant chair for him. And he
could see and feel the eyes and faces on which he was not
quite willing to look.
But directly before him, at another table in the same
square, but more directly below the raised platform at the
west end, as he could see now, were Mason and several
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men whom he seemed to recollect—Earl Newcomb and
Burton Burleigh and yet another man whom he had never
seen before, all four turning and gazing at him as he came.
And about this inner group, an outer circle of men and
women writers and sketch artists.
And then, after a time, recalling Belknap’s advice, he
managed to straighten up and with an air of studied ease
and courage—which was belied to a certain extent by his
strained, pale face and somewhat hazy stare—look at the
writers and artists who were either studying or sketching
him, and even to whisper: “Quite a full house, eh?” But just
then, and before he could say anything more a resounding
whack, whack, from somewhere. And then a voice: “Order
in the Court! His Honor, the Court! Everybody please rise!”
And as suddenly the whispering and stirring audience
growing completely silent. And then, through a door to the
south of the dais, a large urbane and florid and smooth-
faced man, who in an ample black gown, walked swiftly to
the large chair immediately behind the desk, and after
looking steadily upon all before him, but without appearing
to see any one of them seated himself. Whereupon every
one assembled in the courtroom sat down.
And then to the left, yet below the judge, at a smaller desk,
a smaller and older individual standing and calling, “Oyez!
Oyez! All persons having business before the honorable,
the Supreme Court of the State of New York, County of
Cataraqui, draw near and give attention. This court is now
in session!”
And after that this same individual again rising and
beginning: “The State of New York against Clyde Griffiths.”
Then Mason, rising and standing before his table, at once
announced: “The People are ready.” Whereupon Belknap
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arose, and in a courtly and affable manner, stated: “The
defendant is ready.”
Then the same clerk reached into a square box that was
before him, and drawing forth a piece of paper, called
“Simeon Dinsmore,” whereupon a little, hunched and brown-
suited man, with claw-like hands, and a ferret-like face,
immediately scuttled to the jury box and was seated. And
once there he was approached by Mason, who, in a brisk
manner—his flat-nosed face looking most aggressive and
his strong voice reaching to the uttermost corners of the
court, began to inquire as to his age, his business, whether
he was single or married, how many children he had,
whether he believed or did not believe in capital
punishment. The latter question as Clyde at once noted
seemed to stir in him something akin to resentment or
suppressed emotion of some kind, for at once and with
emphasis, he answered: “I most certainly do—for some
people”—a reply which caused Mason to smile slightly and
Jephson to turn and look toward Belknap, who mumbled
sarcastically: “And they talk about the possibility of a fair
trial here.” But at the same time Mason feeling that this very
honest, if all too convinced farmer, was a little too emphatic
in his beliefs, saying: “With the consent of the Court, the
People will excuse the talesman.” And Belknap, after an
inquiring glance from the Judge, nodding his agreement, at
which the prospective juror was excused.
And the clerk, immediately drawing out of the box a second
slip of paper, and then calling: “Dudley Sheerlinel”
Whereupon, a thin, tall man of between thirty-eight and
forty, neatly dressed and somewhat meticulous and
cautious in his manner, approached and took his place in
the box. And Mason once more began to question him as
he had the other.
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934
In the meantime, Clyde, in spite of both Belknap’s and
Jephson’s preliminary precautions, was already feeling stiff
and chill and bloodless. For, decidedly, as he could feel,
this audience was inimical. And amid this closely pressing
throng, as he now thought, with an additional chill, there
must be the father and mother, perhaps also the sisters and
brothers, of Roberta, and all looking at him, and hoping with
all their hearts, as the newspapers during the weeks past
informed him, that he would be made to suffer for this.
And again, all those people of Lycurgus and Twelfth Lake,
no one of whom had troubled to communicate with him in
any way, assuming him to be absolutely guilty, of course—
were any of those here? Jill or Gertrude or Tracy Trumbull,
for instance? Or Wynette Phant or her brother? She had
been at that camp at Bear Lake the day he was arrested.
His mind ran over all the social personages whom he had
encountered during the last year and who would now see
him as he was—poor and commonplace and deserted, and
on trial for such a crime as this. And after all his bluffing
about his rich connections here and in the west. For now, of
course, they would believe him as terrible as his original
plot, without knowing or caring about his side of the story—
his moods and fears—that predicament that he was in with
Roberta—his love for Sondra and all that she had meant to
him. They wouldn’t understand that, and he was not going
to be allowed to tell anything in regard to it, even if he were
so minded.
And yet, because of the advice of Belknap and Jephson, he
must sit up and smile, or at least look pleasant and meet
the gaze of every one boldly and directly. And in
consequence, turning, and for the moment feeling
absolutely transfixed. For there—God, what a resemblance!
—to the left of him on one of those wall benches, was a
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935
woman or girl who appeared to be the living image of
Roberta! It was that sister of hers—Emily—of whom she
had often spoken—but oh, what a shock! His heart almost
stopped. It might even be Robertal And transfixing him with
what ghostly, and yet real, and savage and accusing eyes!
And next to her another girl, looking something like her, too
—and next to her that old man, Roberta’s father—that
wrinkled old man whom he had encountered that day he
had called at his farm door for information, now looking at
him almost savagely, a gray and weary look that said so
plainly: “You murderer! You murderer!” And beside him a
mild and small and ill-looking woman of about fifty, veiled
and very shrunken and sunken-eyed, who, at his glance
dropped her own eyes and turned away, as if stricken with