Robbery Under Arms - Rolf Boldrewood (most important books of all time .TXT) 📗

half through the night, not knowing whether they was to be brought in guilty or not. What a hell they must have gone through in that time⁠—doubt and dread, hope and fear, wretchedness and despair, over and over and over again. No wonder some of ’em can’t stand it, but keeps twitching and shifting and getting paler and turning faint when the jury comes back, and they think they see one thing or the other written in their faces. I’ve seen a strong man drop down like a dead body when the judge opened his mouth to pass sentence on him. I’ve seen ’em faint, too, when the foreman of the jury said “Not guilty.” One chap, he was an innocent upcountry fellow, in for his first bit of duffing, like we was once, he covered his face with his hands when he found he was let off, and cried like a child. All sorts and kinds of different ways men takes it. I was in court once when the judge asked a man who’d just been found guilty if he’d anything to say why he shouldn’t pass sentence of death upon him. He’d killed a woman, cut her throat, and a regular right down cruel murder it was (only men’ll kill women and one another, too, for some causes, as long as the world lasts); and he just leaned over the dock rails, as if he’d been going to get three months, and said, cool and quiet, “No, your Honour; not as I know of.” He’d made up his mind to it from the first, you see, and that makes all the difference. He knew he hadn’t the ghost of a chance to get out of it, and when his time came he faced it. I remember seeing his worst enemy come into the court, and sit and look at him then just to see how he took it, but he didn’t make the least sign. That man couldn’t have told whether he seen him or not.

Starlight and I wasn’t likely to break down⁠—not much⁠—whatever the jury did or the judge said. All the same, after an hour had passed, and we still waiting there, it began to be a sickening kind of feeling. The day had been all taken up with the evidence and the rest of the trial; all long, dragging hours of a hot summer’s day. The sun had been blazing away all day on the iron roof of the courthouse and the red dust of the streets, that lay inches deep for a mile all round the town. The flies buzzed all over the courthouse, and round and round, while the lawyers talked and wrangled with each other; and still the trial went on. Witness after witness was called, and cross-examined and bullied, and confused and contradicted till he was afraid to say what he knew or what he didn’t know. I began to think it must be some kind of performance that would go on forever and never stop, and the day and it never could end.

At last the sun came shining level with the lower window, and we knew it was getting late. After a while the twilight began to get dimmer and grayer. There isn’t much out there when the sun goes down. Then the judge ordered the lamps to be lighted.

Just at that time the bailiff came forward.

“Your Honour, the jury has agreed.” I felt my teeth shut hard; but I made no move or sign. I looked over at Starlight. He yawned. He did, as I’m alive.

“I wish to heaven they’d make more haste,” he said quietly; “his Honour and we are both being done out of our dinners.”

I said nothing. I was looking at the foreman’s face. I thought I knew the word he was going to say, and that word was “Guilty.” Sure enough I didn’t hear anything more for a bit. I don’t mind owning that. Most men feel that way the first time. There was a sound like rushing waters in my ears, and the courthouse and the people all swam before my eyes.

The first I heard was Starlight’s voice again, just as cool and leisurely as ever. I never heard any difference in it, and I’ve known him speak in a lot of different situations. If you shut your eyes you couldn’t tell from the tone of his voice whether he was fighting for his life or asking you to hand him the salt. When he said the hardest and fiercest thing⁠—and he could be hard and fierce⁠—he didn’t raise his voice; he only seemed to speak more distinct like. His eyes were worse than his voice at such times. There weren’t many men that liked to look back at him, much less say anything.

Now he said, “That means five years of Berrima, Dick, if not seven. It’s cooler than these infernal logs, that’s one comfort.”

I said nothing. I couldn’t joke. My throat was dry, and I felt hot and cold by turns. I thought of the old hut by the creek, and could see mother sitting rocking herself, and crying out loud, and Aileen with a set dull look on her face as if she’d never speak or smile again. I thought of the days, months, years that were to pass under lock and key, with irons and shame and solitude all for company. I wondered if the place where they shut up mad people was like a gaol, and why we were not sent there instead.

I heard part of what the judge said, but not all⁠—bits here and there. The jury had brought in a most righteous verdict; just what he should have expected from the effect of the evidence upon an intelligent, well-principled Nomah jury. (We heard afterwards that they were six to six, and then agreed to toss up how the verdict was to go.) “The crime of cattle and horse stealing had assumed gigantic proportions. Sheep, as yet, appeared to