"Ain't no use to try. I can't," repeated Malloch.
"Try," insisted Randall.
Malloch rose from his chair, took the bar, swung it over his shoulders and strained with it against his thick bull-neck, then against the floor, across his knees, across his chest. His face was purple as he shook his head and, handing it back, sat down.
Straight then, Randall strode to the witness box and extended the bar to Varge. His face was flushed with emotion and he swept the hair, straggling into his eyes, away with a jerky motion of his hand, but his voice rose vibrant, strong with triumph.
"Varge, as you stand there you have the same opportunity to accomplish what you must have done as you had that night. If you are guilty, you bent this bar. Show the jury how you did it."
Varge took it quietly from the other's hands.
"John," he said, in a low, grave undertone, "I am guilty. Have you forgotten what happened in the cell this morning?"
A sudden, startled look flashed into Randall's eyes, the colour fled from his face leaving him deadly pale, and he stumbled back a step.
Varge raised the bar.
Neither court nor courtroom officers could stop it—as one, from the rear bench to the front, men rose to their feet and craned forward.
The veins on Varge's neck and wrists were standing out like great knotted cords, his wrists seemed to go as white as the colour of milk, a sweat bead burst from his forehead, then another—and the bar was straight in his hands.
