As for Osborne, he was flushed, savagely earnest. His eyes blazed whether he would or not, and every now and again he smote his great red hands together. The joy of battle was upon him. Such joy the Apache knows when he sights his enemy; such joy must have stirred the gladiator when he rushed into the arena. To be sure this exaltation did not last through the day, but for a few hours it added zest to the duel.
Just such a mob as should have watched this duel gathered in the court-room. Heaven knows where they came from—these women with out-of-date clothes and pendent earrings; these perfumed girls with slashing hats and equivocal eyes. They crowded in, guarded by fatted municipal underlings; they filled one-third of the court-room; and all day, like cigarette girls at a bullfight, they chewed sweetmeats and craned and whispered and grinned. Then there were those who had business there—that honest, white old man, General Molineux, unwavering in belief in his “boy,” for one; for another, there was Harry Cornish—gray from head to foot this one. He was dressed in gray; his gloves were gray; his very face was gray, and the eyes in his deep-lined face were the color of ashes. All day he sat watching the prisoner with swift, furtive glances; watching the reporters; watching the audience; always watching, watching.
What of Molineux? He made an excellent witness. He gave an impression of utter sincerity. Perhaps this was due to Mr. Black’s admirable examination. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he was telling the truth. In any case, he scored heavily. The jurymen nodded approval. Had the case gone to them last night they would have given him—beyond all doubt—the key of the street. Molineux, too, looked content.
The Assistant District Attorney began slowly. Round-shouldered, stooping a bit, in an ill-fitting new coat, with red face and prognathous jaw, he stood for a moment staring at the prisoner. His eyes were burned out as though from lack of sleep. Molineux straightened up in his chair and joined his hands in his lap. Evidently he was summoning all his resolution and all his self-possession. At last he was face to face with the man who for nearly four years had bent every energy of his fierce nature to the task of destroying him; of blackening his home, and branding him with the red mark of murder. And this he knew would be the fiercest assault of all—the final one. He was on guard.