The San Rosario Ranch
long breath of relief.
"Ta-ta, bully, hope I won't see you soon again," he said, nodding
impudently to the door-keeper. The smaller man was lame, as well as
deformed; and the under-warden, who had joined Galbraith, asked him
kindly how his leg was doing.
"Better, sir, thank you," croaked the unfortunate in a harsh voice; "it
came hard on me not havin' George here to help me; but it's all right
now. Good-morning to you, sir."
"Tell me about those men," said Millicent to an official whom Galbraith
had introduced to her.
"They are brothers, George and Pete Marcy. Which of them do you think
paid a twenty-dollar fine to get his brother out of prison just now?
Likely you 'll think it was the good-looking chap; but 't was Pete the
dwarf. He 's the tinker and general useful man of the town, is Pete;
and George is one of the biggest rascals in the State of California.
But he covers his tracks well; and though we know a good many things
about him, we can prove nothing more against him than an occasional
assault and battery."
"And did the poor little creature pay the fine out of his earnings?"
"Bless you, yes; and pays for his clothes,--nice ones, you remarked,
mebbe? Pete gives that rascal every dollar he earns; and the only thing
George does toward supporting himself, is to rob an occasional hen-roost
when he wants to give a supper party."
The outer door now closed with a grave sound; it had let out its day's
quota of men and women who had legally expiated their crimes; it had
taken in its one breath of sun and air. From a narrow window Millicent
saw the Marcy brothers walking down the street, George with head erect
and swaggering gait, Pete shambling awkwardly along at his side, vainly
trying to keep pace with his handsome brother's long strides.
The warden now led the way to the court-room. The keeper of the gate, a
stern-looking man, with iron-gray hair and iron-rusted clothes, stopped
Millicent as she was about to pass through the grated door, saying,--
"Put up your veil, please." Three inches of transparent red tulle
masked her face from the brow to the mouth. So slight a covering was it
that the superior officer had not noticed it; but nothing escaped the
lynx-eyed jailer, who added curtly, "Must keep it up all through the
prison. No woman is allowed to enter or leave this place veiled."
Millicent looked a little puzzled as she unfastened the bit of lace; and
the grim guardian added, in a voice which was something softer than the
grating of his key in the lock,--
"You need n't be ashamed to put up your veil, with _such_ a face as
yours."
Millicent smiled an acknowledgment of the compliment, and passed through
the gate, holding fast to the slip of yellow paper and the red ticket
which had been given to her, and which were necessary to secure an exit
from that precinct which is so easily entered and so difficult to leave.
"You have captivated that grim old fellow with one glance, Miss
Almsford. How do you do it?" queried Galbraith.
"What do you mean? I don't," answered Millicent rather inconsistently.
They had by this time reached the prison-yard; and Millicent, with a
shiver, looked up at the high, smooth stone walls, with their cruel
topping of iron spikes. In a certain angle she stopped a moment,
attracted by a little fern which had found place for its slender roots
in a cranny of the masonry. She suddenly started, and with a horrified
expression ran back a few paces, grown pale to the lips. The warden,
who had looked at her with an odd expression, said,--
"You were standing, just now, miss, on the spot where the gallows is
always erected."
"I knew it," said the girl, in a shaking voice. "I saw it."
Maurice Galbraith quietly drew her arm under his own, and said gently,
but authoritatively,--
"Come, my child, do not be nervous; you have a great deal to go through
with to-day."
He fixed his deep, serious eyes on her face for a moment; and the girl,
sensitive to his quiet influence, quickly recovered herself.
They passed up a narrow, dark stone stair-case, and along a corridor
running outside the cells. Most of the heavy wooden doors were open,
the outer grating of iron revealing the interior of the cells. In one
of these a young mulatto, the Figaro of the village, stood leaning
against the bars talking to a respectable-looking man of his own color,
who proved to be the pastor of a Methodist church. The young man was a
handsome fellow, carefully and neatly dressed. He seemed somewhat
excited, and talked in a loud voice, which he lowered at the approach of
the party. Galbraith inquired what crime he had been charged with, and
learned from the officer that he had wounded his brother mortally in a
quarrel; "They both was waitin' on the same gal," the attendant added in
explanation. A man lying at full-length upon the floor sprang to his
feet as they passed his door, and walked furiously up and down the
narrow room, shaking his head from side to side, reminding Millicent of
a caged panther she had once seen. Each dreary, cramped apartment
imprisoned some unfortunate, either suffering the penalty for, or
awaiting the judgment of, his crimes. Millicent felt the chill air of
the prison damp and fetid upon her cheek, and yet she did not hurry down
the corridor, but walked slowly, apparently looking neither to the right
nor left, but with one quick, sidelong glance, taking in the details of
each of the cells and the faces of the malefactors, impressions which
never faded from her memory. Some of the men laughed impudently as the
little group passed their cells; and one fellow of wild aspect buried
his face in his hands, with a sudden movement, as if ashamed of being
seen behind the disgraceful bars. A pair of youthful criminals were
engaged in playing _moro_, the great Italian gambling game. One of the
youths was a native of Italy; and he had evidently taught his companion
in confinement the simple but exciting game. No cards or dice, checkers
or other paraphernalia, are needed; the game is played with the fingers
only. Those of the left hand keep the account of the game. With the
right hand a quick movement is made by both players simultaneously,
showing a certain number of fingers; while at the same moment each calls
out his guess of the number which his antagonist holds
up,--"due"--"cinque"--"tutti." The familiar words fell upon Millicent's
ears, and she stopped outside the door, her cheeks dyed with a flush of
pleasure, her eyes sparkling at the sound of her native language. She
did not remember that she was in a prison; she thought of nothing but
the fact that here was a compatriot; she spoke to him in a low voice a
few words of greeting. The fellow stared at her at first; and then,
seeing that hers was a friendly face, left his seat on the corner of the
narrow bed, came close to the grate and poured out a torrent of words in
the patois of the Venetians. When he learned that the signorina was not
only of his country, but from his city, the poor fellow, whose crime had
been nothing more than participation in a street-fight, was moved to
tears. Millicent forgot her companions and the strange place of
meeting, and listened with sympathizing attention to the story of the
man with the dull red-gold hair and white, delicate features, whose face
recalled more than one friend in the far-off city of her home. His
profession was that of a cobbler, his name Giovanni Brogli. He had
drifted out to this strange country through a love of wandering, and had
been drawn into a street-brawl by some chance acquaintances, who had
robbed him of all that remained of his small fortune; and when he would
have fought his betrayers, they turned him over to the police. True or
false, the story was a pitiful one. The creature could speak next to no
English; and Millicent's tender heart was troubled by the recital of his
griefs. She had no money with her, and before either of her companions
was aware of her intention, she had untwined a gold serpent of exquisite
workmanship from her throat and held it through the bars to the man
inside the cell. He looked at her with wondering eyes, and taking the
white fingers in his own rough, blackened hand, kissed them reverently,
murmuring a blessing which brought tears to her eyes.
"I say, Princess, you must n't do that sort of thing;" said Hal,
thoroughly scandalized, pulling her by the sleeve. "Come on! you can't
stand talking to these rascals and giving them your jewelry,--it is n't
sensible."
She answered impatiently, and then saying a word of farewell to the
prisoner, she submitted to be led away from the grate by Galbraith,
followed by a fervent parting blessing from Giovanni of the reddish
locks.
"I wish you wouldn't be so absurdly soft-hearted. What did you want to
give that beggar your lovely necklace for?" said Hal.
"I had no money with me," half penitently.
"Well, I could have let you have some. But it's against the rule. I
should n't wonder if you got into trouble for doing such a thing,"
continued the young man, who was genuinely shocked at Millicent's
behavior.
"There was no harm done, was there, Mr. Galbraith? I won't be scolded.
It was my serpent; I will do what I choose with my own things, and will
not be dictated to by you." Millicent was angry at Deering's very
natural interference; and Galbraith, anxious to spare her all annoyance,
gave Hal a warning kick, and hurried her towards their destination, lest
she should feel moved to part with any more of her personal property for
the benefit of the prisoners.
They now entered a small apartment; and Millicent learned that before
the opening of the trial, she was called upon to identify the murderer
of Ah Lam. The question was asked,--
"Could you identify, on oath, the man you saw at Carey's Bridge? You
were under great excitement at the time; you could hardly be expected to
remember anything beyond the fact of the killing."
"I am positive I can identify him."
"On oath; are you sure?"
"Perfectly so."
"How could you surely recognize a man you have seen but once, under very
painful circumstances, six weeks ago?"
"I remember his face distinctly; I should know his voice among a
thousand."
"Be careful; what you say may be put to the test. What you state in the
court you must be able to prove."
"I am ready to prove it."
When the moment came for the identification of the prisoner, Millicent's
eyes were bandaged; and twelve men filed into the room, among whom she
was told was the man arrested for the crime. As she had made the
assertion that his voice alone would betray the murderer to her, she was
asked to listen to a sentence repeated in turn by each of these men.
Three of them had said the stipulated words, and the fourth was about to
speak, when those who were nearest to Millicent noticed that she
shuddered violently.
"Let the next man speak."
The fellow looked at Millicent askance, and then repeated the sentence
in a low, unnatural voice. He had said but three words when she
interrupted him.
"The person who is now speaking is the man who assaulted me at Carey's
Bridge."
The judge, who had taken a keen interest in all Millicent had said, now
motioned to the men to change places. The bandage being removed, she
glanced at the row of men and said,--
"He now stands at the end of the row nearest the window."
Her expression, as she turned her eyes and looked in the face of Daniel
Horton, was cold and set as that of one of the younger Fates. Aversion
and horror were therein painted. As she spoke she pointed at the guilty
wretch, who moved uneasily under her gaze, and dropped his bold eyes
before the light in her gray orbs, as if their fire scorched him.