Nor had the young attorney's actions been significant only to Varge. From Joe Malloch, the blacksmith, who sat amongst those on the front bench, his doubled fists crowded between his knees, his honest, bearded face out-thrown a little from bended shoulders, to the twelve men in the jury box, each in attitudes of strained attention, to the set sea of faces behind Malloch, to Lee, the district attorney, whose glance more than once rested with speculative curiosity on the package before Randall, to Judge Crosswaite on the bench, silver-haired, his kindly face grave and serious, all seemed subtly conscious of some startling thing impending, that gradually had charged the courtroom with suspense until now that the crucial moment had arrived the very air seemed electrified with expectation.
John Randall rose with slow deliberation from his chair.
"Varge to the stand!"
A murmur, instantly hushed, swept through the room.
Varge stood up, and, for the first time since the trial had begun, the eyes of the two men met—in Randall's there was a light that seemed to mingle determination and assurance with a lurking sense of ironic command; in Varge's eyes there was only grave scrutiny.
As Varge, led by Handerlie, stepped into the witness box, and, with hand upraised, took the oath, every eye in the room was upon him. Motionless as he stood, he seemed like some splendid statue, the masterpiece of a famous sculptor, in which grace, strength and rugged beauty were wrought and blended with a master's skill—the hair, as it fell over the clear, white, broad brow, might have been put there by Michael Angelo himself;
