Dr. Sevier Part 37

"Stand there!"

Some one is in the witness-stand, speaking. The prisoner partly hears, but does not see. He stands and holds the rail, with his eyes fixed vacantly on the clerk, who bends over his desk under the seat of justice, writing. The lawyers notice him. His dress has been laboriously genteel, but is torn and soiled. A detective, with small eyes set close together, and a nose like a yacht's rudder, whisperingly calls the notice of one of these spectators who can see the prisoner's face to the fact that, for all its thinness and bruises, it is not a bad one. All can see that the man's hair is fine and waving where it is not matted with blood.

The testifying officer had moved as if to leave the witness-stand, when the recorder restrained him by a gesture, and, leaning forward and looking down upon the prisoner, asked:--

"Have you anything to say to this?"

The prisoner lifted his eyes, bowed affirmatively, and spoke in a low, timid tone. "May I say a few words to you privately?"

"No."

He dropped his eyes, fumbled with the rail, and, looking up suddenly, said in a stronger voice, "I want somebody to go to my wife--in Prieur street. She is starving. This is the third day"--

"We're not talking about that," said the recorder. "Have you anything to say against this witness's statement?"

The prisoner looked upon the floor and slowly shook his head. "I never meant to break the law. I never expected to stand here. It's like an awful dream. Yesterday, at this time, I had no more idea of this--I didn't think I was so near it. It's like getting caught in machinery."

He looked up at the recorder again. "I'm so confused"--he frowned and drew his hand slowly across his brow--"I can hardly--put my words together. I was hunting for work. There is no man in this city who wants to earn an honest living more than I do."

"What's your trade?"

"I have none."

"I supposed not. But you profess to have some occupation, I dare say.

What's your occupation?"

"Accountant."

"Hum! you're all accountants. How long have you been out of employment?"

"Six months."

"Why did you go to sleep under those steps?"

"I didn't intend to go to sleep. I was waiting for a friend to come in who boards at the St. Charles."

A sudden laugh ran through the room. "Silence in court!" cried a deputy.

"Who is your friend?" asked the recorder.

The prisoner was silent.

"What is your friend's name?"

Still the prisoner did not reply. One of the group of pettifoggers sitting behind him leaned forward, touched him on the shoulder, and murmured: "You'd better tell his name. It won't hurt him, and it may help you." The prisoner looked back at the man and shook his head.

"Did you strike this officer?" asked the recorder, touching the witness, who was resting on both elbows in the light arm-chair on the right.

The prisoner made a low response.

"I don't hear you," said the recorder.

"I struck him," replied the prisoner; "I knocked him down." The court officers below the dais smiled. "I woke and found him spurning me with his foot, and I resented it. I never expected to be a law-breaker.

I"-- He pressed his temples between his hands and was silent. The men of the law at his back exchanged glances of approval. The case was, to some extent, interesting.

"May it please the court," said the man who had before addressed the prisoner over his shoulder, stepping out on the right and speaking very softly and graciously, "I ask that this man be discharged. His fault seems so much more to be accident than intention, and his suffering so much more than his fault"--

The recorder interrupted by a wave of the hand and a preconceived smile: "Why, according to the evidence, the prisoner was noisy and troublesome in his cell all night."

"O sir," exclaimed the prisoner, "I was thrown in with thieves and drunkards! It was unbearable in that hole. We were right on the damp and slimy bricks. The smell was dreadful. A woman in the cell opposite screamed the whole night. One of the men in the cell tried to take my coat from me, and I beat him!"

"It seems to me, your honor," said the volunteer advocate, "the prisoner is still more sinned against than sinning. This is evidently his first offence, and"--

"Do you know even that?" asked the recorder.

"I do not believe his name can be found on any criminal record. I"--

The recorder interrupted once more. He leaned toward the prisoner.

"Did you ever go by any other name?"

The prisoner was dumb.

"Isn't John Richling the only name you have ever gone by?" said his new friend: but the prisoner silently blushed to the roots of his hair and remained motionless.

"I think I shall have to send you to prison," said the recorder, preparing to write. A low groan was the prisoner's only response.

"May it please your honor," began the lawyer, taking a step forward; but the recorder waved his pen impatiently.

"Why, the more is said the worse his case gets; he's guilty of the offence charged, by his own confession."

"I am guilty and not guilty," said the prisoner slowly. "I never intended to be a criminal. I intended to be a good and useful member of society; but I've somehow got under its wheels. I've missed the whole secret of living." He dropped his face into his hands. "O Mary, Mary!

why are you my wife?" He beckoned to his counsel. "Come here; come here." His manner was wild and nervous. "I want you--I want you to go to Prieur street, to my wife. You know--you know the place, don't you?

Prieur street. Ask for Mrs. Riley"--

"Richling," said the lawyer.

"No, no! you ask for Mrs. Riley? Ask her--ask her--oh! where are my senses gone? Ask"--

"May it please the court," said the lawyer, turning once more to the magistrate and drawing a limp handkerchief from the skirt of his dingy alpaca, with a reviving confidence, "I ask that the accused be discharged; he's evidently insane."

The prisoner looked rapidly from counsel to magistrate, and back again, saying, in a low voice, "Oh, no! not that! Oh, no! not that! not that!"

The recorder dropped his eyes upon a paper on the desk before him, and, beginning to write, said without looking up:--

"Parish Prison--to be examined for insanity."

A cry of remonstrance broke so sharply from the prisoner that even the reporters in their corner checked their energetic streams of lead-pencil rhetoric and looked up.

"You cannot do that!" he exclaimed. "I am not insane! I'm not even confused now! It was only for a minute! I'm not even confused!"