Perhaps, thought Ellis, there might be a way out of the dilemma. It might be possible to save this innocent negro without, for the time being, involving Delamere. He believed that murder will out, but it need not be through his initiative. He determined to go to the jail and interview the prisoner, who might give such an account of himself as would establish his innocence beyond a doubt. If so, Ellis would exert himself to stem the tide of popular fury. If, as a last resort, he could save Sandy only by denouncing Delamere, he would do his duty, let it cost him what it might.
The gravity of his errand was not lessened by what he saw and heard on the way to the jail. The anger of the people was at a white heat. A white woman had been assaulted and murdered by a brutal negro. Neither advanced age, nor high social standing, had been able to protect her from the ferocity of a black savage. Her sex, which should have been her shield and buckler, had made her an easy mark for the villainy of a black brute. To take the time to try him would be a criminal waste of public money. To hang him would be too slight a punishment for so dastardly a crime. An example must be made.
Already the preparations were under way for the impending execution. A T-rail from the railroad yard had been procured, and men were burying it in the square before the jail. Others were bringing chains, and a load of pine wood was piled in convenient proximity. Some enterprising individual had begun the erection of seats from which, for a pecuniary consideration, the spectacle might be the more easily and comfortably viewed.
Ellis was stopped once or twice by persons of his acquaintance. From one he learned that the railroads would run excursions from the neighboring towns in order to bring spectators to the scene; from another that the burning was to take place early in the evening, so that the children might not be kept up beyond their usual bedtime. In one group that he passed he heard several young men discussing the question of which portions of the negro’s body they would prefer for souvenirs. Ellis shuddered and hastened forward. Whatever was to be done must be done quickly, or it would be too late. He saw that already it would require a strong case in favor of the accused to overcome the popular verdict.
Going up the steps of the jail, he met Mr. Delamere, who was just coming out, after a fruitless interview with Sandy.
“Mr. Ellis,” said the old gentleman, who seemed greatly agitated, “this is monstrous!”
“It is indeed, sir!” returned the younger man. “I mean to stop it if I can. The negro did not kill Mrs. Ochiltree.”
Mr. Delamere looked at Ellis keenly, and, as Ellis recalled afterwards, there was death in his eyes. Unable to draw a syllable from Sandy, he had found his servant’s silence more eloquent than words. Ellis felt a presentiment that this affair, however it might terminate, would be fatal to this fine old man, whom the city could ill spare, in spite of his age and infirmities.
“Mr. Ellis,” asked Mr. Delamere, in a voice which trembled with ill-suppressed emotion, “do you know who killed her?”
Ellis felt a surging pity for his old friend; but every step that he had taken toward the jail had confirmed and strengthened his own resolution that this contemplated crime, which he dimly felt to be far more atrocious than that of which Sandy was accused, in that it involved a whole community rather than one vicious man, should be stopped at any cost. Deplorable enough had the negro been guilty, it became, in view of his certain innocence, an unspeakable horror, which for all time would cover the city with infamy. “Mr. Delamere,” he replied, looking the elder man squarely in the eyes, “I think I do—and I am very sorry.”
“And who was it, Mr. Ellis?”
He put the question hopelessly, as though the answer were a foregone conclusion.
“I do not wish to say at present,” replied Ellis, with a remorseful pang, “unless it becomes absolutely necessary, to save the negro’s life. Accusations are dangerous—as this case proves—unless the proof be certain.”
For a moment it seemed as though Mr. Delamere would collapse upon the spot. Rallying almost instantly, however, he took the arm which Ellis involuntarily offered, and said with an effort:—
“Mr. Ellis, you are a gentleman whom it is an honor to know. If you have time, I wish you would go with me to my house—I can hardly trust myself alone—and thence to the Chronicle office. This thing shall be stopped, and you will help me stop it.”
It required but a few minutes to cover the half mile that lay between the prison and Mr. Delamere’s residence.
XXVII
The Vagaries of the Higher Law
Mr. Delamere went immediately to his grandson’s room, which he entered alone, closing and locking the door behind
