The judge, who a moment before had towered above them all in
melancholy but impressive dignity, shrunk with one gasp into
feebleness and sank back stricken, if not unconscious, into his
chair.
Was it a stroke, or just one of his attacks of which all had
heard? Was he aware of his own condition and the disturbance it
caused or was he, on the contrary, dead to his own misery and
oblivious of the rush which was made from all sides to his
assistance? Even Deborah could not tell, and was forced to sit
quiet in her corner, waiting for the parting of the group which
hid the judge from her sight.
It happened suddenly and showed her the same figure she had seen
once before--a man with faculties suspended, but not impaired,
facing them all with open gaze but absolutely dead for the moment
to his own condition and to the world about.
But, horrible as this was, what she saw going on behind him was
infinitely worse. A man had caught up the bit of paper Judge
Ostrander had let fall from his hand and was opening his lips to
read it to the curious people surrounding him.
She tried to stop him. She forced a cry to her lips which should
have rung through the room, but which died away on the air
unheard. The terror which had paralysed her limbs had choked her
voice.
But her ears remained true. Low as he spoke, no trumpet-call could
have made its meaning clearer to Deborah Scoville than did these
words:
"We know why you favour criminals.
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