AGAIN A PRISONER
horror. Instead of clearing me of suspicion, everything tended rather to bind closer the chains of guilt.
"Do you mean—"
"I mean this, Mr. Lieutenant King, of the Federal Army, and his black eyes blazed into mine, with angry insolence, "that you, and you only, are the murderer of Lucius Navarre."
I saw the flash of a revolver in his hand; I felt the iron grip of Big Donald's fingers clutching my arm, yet I have no recollection of moving so much as a muscle. The awfulness of the situation appeared to paralyze my every faculty; I could neither think nor act. What was there I could do? I had no defence remaining, and I was physically helpless. The very room swam before me in a mist, the faces seemed unreal, the voices unnatural. I knew the Judge spoke, and that Donald answered him; I dimly remember that Calvert Dunn demanded that they immediately take the law into their own hands; some one counselled delay; I saw Jean Denslow's face full of appeal; I think she spoke, and that I attempted answering some question. Yet it was all like a dream, a delirium, in which I appeared to have no real part. Suddenly the animal in me returned to life; I could not think, but I could act; I could break away; I could fight these devils. I struck out recklessly at Calvert Dunn, maddened by those black, threatening eyes. I felt the thud of my blow, heard the discharge of his revolver as he went down, and struggled desperately to break loose from the grip of the giant who held me. It was all the work of a wild moment. The next I lay unconscious on the floor.
[ 153 ]
