# My Lady of the South/Chapter 13

CHAPTER XIII
AGAIN A PRISONER
I COULD see them leaning forward staring at me with suddenly blanched faces; I heard a sharp cry, as Miss Dunn dropped her head upon the arm of the sofa; a bitter oath from the lips of Calvert Dunn, as he leaped to his feet, his dark face fairly black from passion.
"You damned liar," he shouted, rage choking his utterance, "this was your work! you killed him!"
I thought he would spring at me, but, even as I drew back a single step for better defence, Jean Denslow came between us.
"No! not that! at least give Lieutenant King a chance to fell his story."
"Ay! be still, boy," and Donald rose to his feet, a massive figure of a man. "You found him lying dead, you say?"
"Yes, resting upon the floor huddled upon his left side. I turned him over on his back seeking the wound. It was a knife thrust in the throat, but the blade had been withdrawn. There are marks of blood on the window sill, from whence the assassin must have dropped to the ground."
For a moment there was no sound other than the quick ​breathing of the startled group. I sought to read the expression on the face of the girl beside me, but her hands were pressed to her eyes, her form trembling. Then Donald stepped to the open doorway, blocking the only egress from the room.
"Calvert," he said in stern tone of command, "go up stairs, and verify his story. Lieutenant King will remain where he is until your return."
As young Dunn hastily left the room I turned to meet the deep-set eyes of his father.
"Why did n't you go out that window also?" he asked bluntly, "you could probably have escaped."
"Yes," I answered, "and you would have believed forever that I was the murderer."
"That would n't have hurt you any; the killing of one of the enemy by a scout in time of war is not considered murder. Your army would have protected you "
"I am not that kind of a man, Judge Dunn."
"I don't know what sort you may be," he returned slowly, "but in this case it seems to me you are either a fool, or a wise knave, and there is not a very wide difference between the two. You evidently expect this voluntary surrender will clear you of all suspicion."
"No; it simply means I intend to remain, and face the suspicion. The man upstairs was killed by a knife thrust; I possess no knife. The one who killed him dropped from the window, leaving his bloody finger marks on the sill. The morning will reveal his imprint on the ground beneath. Had I followed, I might have been considered guilty, but the real murderer has left a trail proving it ​impossible for me to have been the man. My act is neither that of fool nor that of a knave; I prefer being a prisoner rather than to have this foul crime charged against me."
We must have waited there for ten minutes, no one speaking, the Judge gazing full at me, as if I were a prisoner before his court, the big frame of Donald completely blocking the doorway. Miss Dunn was crying softly, and I thought Jean was beside her, but I did not venture to glance toward them. Suddenly Calvert Dunn came down the hall, holding in his hand a lighted lantern.
"Lieutenant Navarre is lying dead in Jean's room," he said shortly, evidently striving to speak calmly, yet with trembling voice. "He was stabbed in the throat with a knife, and apparently given little opportunity for defence, as there are no evidences of struggle. There is a light still burning in his own room, further down the hall, and I believe Navarre was in there, seeking his revolver, when he heard some noise in the front of the house causing him to investigate. The hidden assassin must have sprung upon him in the dark."
"You found other evidence?"
"Comparatively little. There are marks of blood on the sill of the open window, not finger marks, merely splashes. The roadway is below, and a man dropping from that height would leave no impress on the packed ashes. I found this knife in the bushes, where it could easily have been thrown from the window."
The full meaning of all this burst upon my mind in ​horror. Instead of clearing me of suspicion, everything tended rather to bind closer the chains of guilt.
"Do you mean—"
"I mean this, Mr. Lieutenant King, of the Federal Army, and his black eyes blazed into mine, with angry insolence, "that you, and you only, are the murderer of Lucius Navarre."
I saw the flash of a revolver in his hand; I felt the iron grip of Big Donald's fingers clutching my arm, yet I have no recollection of moving so much as a muscle. The awfulness of the situation appeared to paralyze my every faculty; I could neither think nor act. What was there I could do? I had no defence remaining, and I was physically helpless. The very room swam before me in a mist, the faces seemed unreal, the voices unnatural. I knew the Judge spoke, and that Donald answered him; I dimly remember that Calvert Dunn demanded that they immediately take the law into their own hands; some one counselled delay; I saw Jean Denslow's face full of appeal; I think she spoke, and that I attempted answering some question. Yet it was all like a dream, a delirium, in which I appeared to have no real part. Suddenly the animal in me returned to life; I could not think, but I could act; I could break away; I could fight these devils. I struck out recklessly at Calvert Dunn, maddened by those black, threatening eyes. I felt the thud of my blow, heard the discharge of his revolver as he went down, and struggled desperately to break loose from the grip of the giant who held me. It was all the work of a wild moment. The next I lay unconscious on the floor.
​I came to myself confused by my surroundings, but with mind comparatively clear. I was lying on some blankets in one corner of the cellar. Through a small barred window a bit of daylight streamed in, enabling me to perceive something of the desolate interior. My head throbbed from the blow which had felled me, and was bound about with a linen napkin. Otherwise I appeared to be unhurt. I sat up and stared about, recalling to mind the circumstances which had brought me into this situation. Bad as things were previously, I had rendered them infinitely worse by that mad effort at resistance. No doubt my returning to the library was in itself an act of foolishness, less convincing of innocence than I had supposed at the moment, but, whatever virtue it might have contained was now entirely offset by my futile attempt at escape. In the minds of all I was condemned, nor did I have a Single plea to offer. Drops of perspiration beaded my forehead as I thought of those accusing facts pointing so directly toward me. I was held a murderer; the word seemed to burn into my brain as though formed of fire; even Jean Denslow could believe in me no longer—not with all that crushing evidence dragging me down to infamy. Her name lingered on my lips in dread as I bowed my head in my hands; then someway it came back as an inspiration. I sat staring into the darkest corner of the cellar, yet seeing nothing except the vision of that young girl—her slender figure, her bright, earnest face, her light fluffy hair, her gray-blue eyes shining beneath the long lashes. She was my wife, my wife; the law said so, and yet I could scarcely persuade ​myself of the truth. It had never seemed very much to me before, but it did now, the blood tingling through my veins as the recollection returned. Perhaps she would hate me if she knew; beyond question she despised me already; yet to me the memory was like a flame. I would not yield to this fate; there was a chance for fighting yet, and I wanted to live, to clear my name for her sake. All at once it dawned upon me like a revelation that I loved her; that no other woman in all this world could ever take her position in my heart. I tried to recall each look, each word, which had passed between us, finding little enough to bring encouragement. Yet she had believed in me, held me as gentleman despite my uniform, had even pleaded in my behalf. Now I must prove to her my innocence of crime.
There was but one way-escape, and the running down of the real murderer. How it had been accomplished I could not even guess, but I had one name in my thought—Daniels. About him alone centred motive, opportunity, inclination. This was an act of feud, not war, and there was no one else whom I could connect with such a crime. He had hinted at persecution, and very naturally I had sympathized with him; but now I had the other side of the story, and felt inclined to believe that he alone was keeping the feud alive. There was nothing in the countenance of Big Donald to make me consider him a bloodthirsty monster, and surely Jean Denslow was animated by no mad spirit of revenge. Whatever the original cause, however great the provocation, nothing could justify the cowardly killing in cold blood of ​this innocent man. I cherished no liking for Calvert Dunn, and the old Judge seemed to me a cold-blooded individual, but, almost insensibly, I ranged myself beside Jem Donald and Miss Denslow, convinced of their worthiness. But I could neither serve them nor myself by lying there motionless.
From what little sense of direction I retained, I judged this cellar room to be at the north side of the house, and a brief search along the walls of the shadowy interior revealed nothing which could aid me in any way. It was totally bare, bricked solidly to the floor beams above, the single entrance by a heavy oak door, evidently barred without, as I could discover no lock, and the only window, scarcely large enough to admit the body of a boy, secured by stout strips of iron, between which the daylight filtered weakly. I went over it all, foot by foot, testing everything, feeling the necessity of discovering any existing weakness while daylight remained. But I met with no reward. Without tools of some kind the walls were impregnable, and there was absolutely nothing I could use as wedge, lever, or hammer. I dug at the bricks, tested the window strips, and exercised my strength and ingenuity in every possible manner, driven to new expedients by recollection of my perilous position; but such efforts were all useless. Wearied and heartsick I had fallen back upon the blankets, when food was suddenly shoved through the quickly opened door. I caught merely a glimpse of a black hand and arm. Before I could so much as sit erect these were withdrawn, and the heavy outside bar rattled into its socket.
​I ate heartily enough in spite of trouble and uncertainty, turning over and over again in my mind the conditions of my imprisonment. What course would my captors take? Who among them would influence the others? All alike, probably, deemed me guilty of deliberate murder, yet in this time of war, in this country overrun by armies, it was scarcely likely there were courts or peace officers to take charge. What then? Would I be removed to Confederate headquarters under guard? Or would these men, actuated as they were by the feud spirit, proceed without law, to wreak personal vengeance? If they believed me a soldier, an officer of Rosecrans's staff, they would probably turn me over to the military authorities; but if not, if they were convinced I was connected in some way with Daniels, they were not likely to extend any great degree of mercy. They had hung and shot men before in seeking to rid this region of that faction. Now in time of war, when few questions were likely to be asked, they would scarcely hesitate before offering me similar treatment. Why was I being held here all day? Were they seeking after more convincing evidence? Had they discovered trace of Daniels and O'Brien? Had Donald sent for his men? Question after question rose before me, but I could only guess desperately at the answers. I had nothing to hope for from Calvert Dunn, nor had I perceived any signs of sympathy in the deep-set eyes of his father, but Big Donald was a stronger character than either, and had impressed me much more favorably. Well, it was like the tossing up of a coin, and it was not likely to be long before ​I learned their decision. Every hour of delay might aid me. If Daniels was in the house, he may have learned, or suspected my predicament, and either he or O'Brien could guide a troop of horse there from our lines in twelve hours. They would certainly be searching after me, and where would they be so likely to search as here? I had completed my meal and was sitting with head buried in my hands, my thoughts insensibly drifting to Jean Denslow. If I could only really understand her; if I could know how she felt toward me now under the shadow of this crime. Of course I was in her thought merely as a chance acquaintance, an enemy, indeed, so far as the uniform went, yet she had exhibited some interest, and perhaps still retained a slight doubt of my guilt. Girl though she was in years, yet hers was the heart of a woman, and I felt that she would stand for all she deemed to be right in face of them all. If I only knew she retained confidence in me, I could meet courageously the rest. I was staring down at the bricks, so deeply immersed in gloomy conjectures as to be unconscious of all else; I heard no sound, and yet something told me of another presence. As my eyes lifted I saw her, standing alone just within the closed door, looking at me.