“Yes; but when ye air dead ye ain’t able ter be pestered by studyin’ ’bout what yer administrator air a-doin’ with yer yearthly chattels an’ cattle.” “How d’ye know?” demanded Price. “Arter all we hearn ter-day, a body mought b’lieve a real likely harnt air ekal ter ennything in motion an’ looks, an’ ye dunno _what_ they air studyin’ ’bout. But time’s a-wastin’. ’Less we air wantin’ ter bide hyar all night agin, we hed better be talkin’ ’bout our verdict on Mink Lorey. The jedge’s waitin’, an’ from all I hev seen o’ him he ain’t handy at patience.” “Waal, sir,” said the man with his feet on the stove, who was the foreman of the jury, taking his pipe from his mouth, “I ain’t settin’ much store on Gwinnan. I don’t b’lieve he acted right an’ ’cordin’ ter law about this jury. Thar’s thirteen men on this jury!” They all sat motionless, staring at him. “Yes, sir,” he declared, reinserting his pipe between his teeth, and speaking with them closed upon it. “I know the law! My uncle war a jestice o’ the peace fur six year, ’bout ten year ago. An’ he hed a Code o’ Tennessee! An’ I read in it! Some mighty interestin’ readin’ in the Code o’ Tennessee. Sure’s ye born, thar is! The law say the juror, ef he be ailin’, kin be excused, an’ another summonsed. But Peter Rood warn’t excused, nor discharged nuthar. He’s on this jury yit.” “Waal, fur Gawd’s sake, don’t git ter jawin’ ’bout Peter Rood!” cried Bylor, the man on whose chair the dead juror had fallen, and who had turned his face to the close encounter of the stare of death in those glassy eyes. Bylor’s nerves were still unstrung. He looked as ill as a broad-shouldered, sun-burned, brawny fellow could look. “I never slep’ a wink las’ night; an’ that thar cussed ’torney-gineral a-tellin’ them awful tales ’bout harnts all day, an’ that thar solemn Lethe Sayles purtendin’ she hed seen that drownded idjit,—I felt ez ef I’d fall down in a fit ef they didn’t quit it.” “I don’t b’lieve she seen Tad’s harnt,” said Ben Doaks, instinctively adopting her view. “Then what war it in the _graveyard_ fur?” demanded the foreman conclusively. There was momentary silence. The sunshine was dying out on the floor; the dim tracery of the boughs of the hickory-tree was the only manifestation of its presence. The rural sound of the lowing of cattle came in on the soft air,—the village kine were returning from their pastures. The voices of men in the rooms below rose and fell fitfully; they were trying another case, in the interim of waiting for the verdict. “An’ how kem nobody hev seen him sence, ’ceptin’ Lethe Sayles?” he supplemented his question. “The jedge hinted ez much ez we-uns oughter be powerful keerful o’ not convictin’ a man fur killin’, when a witness claimed ter hev seen the dead one sence,” argued Jerry Price, ambiguously. “She never seen nuthin’ but his ghost,” said the foreman.