The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume II

“Are you positive, then, that this man is Black Sam?”

“I am.”

“Are you prepared to swear to it on your solemn oath, taking all the consequences false evidence will bring down upon you?”

“I am.”

“You are quite certain that it’s no accidental resemblance, but that this is the very identical man you knew long ago?”

“I’m certain sure. I’d know him among a thousand; and, be the same token, he has a mark of a cut on the crown of his head, three inches long. See, now, if I ‘m not right.”

Meekins was now ordered to mount the witness-table, and remove his wig. He was about to say something, but Wallace stopped him and whispered a few words in his ear.

“I would beg to observe,” said the lawyer, “that if an old cicatrix is to be the essential token of recognition, few men who have lived the adventurous life of Meekins will escape calumny.”

“‘T is a mark like the letter V,” said Jimmy; “for it was ould Peter himself gave it him, one night, with a brass candlestick. There it is!” cried he, triumphantly; “did n’t I tell true?”

The crowded galleries creaked under the pressure of the eager spectators, who now bent forward and gazed on this strong proof of identification.

“Is there any other mark by which you could remember him?”

“Sure, I know every fayture in his face, – what more d’ye want?”

“Now, when did you see him last, – I mean before this day?”

“The last time I seen him was the mornin’ he was taken up.”

“How do you mean’ taken up’?”

“Taken up by the polis.”

“Taken by the police, – for what?”

“About the murder, to be sure.”

A thrill of horror pervaded the court as these words were spoken, and Meekins, whose impassive face had never changed before, became now pale as death.

“Tell the jury what you saw on the morning you speak of.”

“I was at home, work in’, when the polis passed by. They asked me where Black Sam lived; ‘Up the road,’ says I.”

“How far is your house from his?”

“About fifty perches, your honor, in the same boreen, but higher up.”

“So that, in going from Mr. Godfrey’s to his own home, Sam must have passed your door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This he did every day, – two or three times, – did n’t he?”

“He did, sir.”

“Did you usually speak to each other as he went by?”

“Yes, sir; we always would say, ‘God save you,’ or the like.”

“How was he dressed on these occasions?”

“The way he was always dressed, – how would he be?”

“That’s exactly what I ‘m asking you.”

“Faix! he had his coat and breeches, like any other man.”

“I see. He had his coat and breeches, like any other man; now, what color was his coat?”

“It was gray, sir, – blue-gray. I know it well.”

“How do you come to know it well?”

“Bekase my own boy, Ned, sir, bought one off the same piece before he ‘listed, and I couldn’t forget it.”

“Where were you the day after the murder, when the policemen came to take Sam Eustace?”

“I was sitting at my own door, smoking a pipe, and I see the polis comin’, and so I went in and shut the door.”

“What was that for? You had no reason to fear them.”

“Ayeh! – who knows? – the polis is terrible!”

“Well, after that?”

“Well, when I heard them pass, I opened the door, and then I saw enough. They were standing at Sam’s house; one of them talking to Sam, and the other two rummaging about, sticking poles into the thatch, and tumbling oyer the turf in the stack.

“‘Isn’t this a pretty business?’ says Sam, calling out to me. ‘The polis is come to take me off to prison because some one murdered the master.’ ‘Well, his soul’s in glory, anyhow,’ says I, and I shut the doore.”

“And saw nothing more?”

“Only the polis lading Sam down the boreen betune them.”

“He made no resistance, then?”

“Not a bit; he went as quiet as a child. When he was going by the doore, I remember he said to one of the polis, ‘Would it be plazing to ye to help me wid my coat; for I cut my finger yesterday?’”

“Did n’t I say it was with a reaping-hook?” cried Meekins, who, in all the earnestness of anxiety, followed every word that fell from the witness.

His counsel sprang to his feet, and pulled him back by the arm; but not before the unguarded syllables had been heard by every one around. Such was the sensation now produced, that for several minutes the proceedings were interrupted, while the counsel conferred in low whispers together, and all seemed thunderstruck and amazed. Twice Meekins stood forward to address the court, but on each occasion he was restrained by the counsel beside him; and it was only by the use of menaces that Wallace succeeded in enforcing silence on him. “When the moment of cross-examination arrives,” said he to the jury, “I hope to explain every portion of this seeming difficulty. Have you any further questions to ask the witness?”