“Ben, how’d that leetle red cow o’ mine git her hawn bruk?” interpolated the bereaved cattle-owner, meditating on the vicissitudes experienced by his herds in their summer vacation. “Gawd A’mighty, man, quit talkin’ ’bout yer cattle, interruptin’ we-uns jes’ ez we war a-gittin’ ter the p’int!” exclaimed the foreman. “I’d heap ruther hear Mr. Beames talk ’bout his cattle ’n hear ’bout harnts, an’ sech,” said Bylor, as he lay on the bench. He was still feeling far from well. He got up presently, and went to the officer, who was at the door, and petitioned for something to drink. But that worthy, determined upon the literal performance of duty, withstood his every persuasion, even when he declared he was “plumb sick;” and the rest of the jury, alarmed lest he should be excused, another juror summoned, and the whole performance of the trial begin anew, the agony of their detention thus lengthening indefinitely, pleaded for him. The officer’s devotion to what he considered his duty did not save him from some abuse. “’Twould sarve ye right ef we war ter lay a-holt o’ ye an’ fling ye outer this winder,” said Ben Doaks. “Ye mis’able leetle green gourd, ye dunno nuthin’ ’bout nuthin’,” declared the foreman, the much informed because of the Code. “Waal, ye kin say what ye wanter,” retorted the official. He was a young man; he had a resolute eye and a shock head. “But ye ain’t goin’ ter git out’n here till ye find yer verdict.” He withdrew his tousled head suddenly, and shut the door on them. Rebellion availing nothing, they resorted to faction. “Ye needn’t be so powerful techy ’bout harnts; ye ain’t seen none ez I knows on,” said the foreman, turning upon the sick juror. “Naw, an’ I don’t wanter hear ’bout none o’ ’em till my stommick feels stronger.” “Shucks! that air nuthin’ oncommon, seein’ harnts an’ sech. Plenty o’ folks hev seen the same one. Thar’s ever so many o’ them herders on Thunderhead hev seen the harnt ez herds up thar. Rob Carrick seen him. I have hearn him tell ’bout’n it arter he got his mind back. Hain’t you, Ben?” The moon was at the eastern windows. The white lustre poured in. The great room seemed lonely and deserted, despite the group of deliberating jurymen, and the colorless double with which each had been furnished, to ape his gesture, and caricature his size, and dog his every step. An owl was hooting in some distant tree. The voices from the street were faint. “Ain’t that thar weasel of a constable goin’ ter hev no lamps brung hyar ter-night?” exclaimed Bylor. But the lamps which came in almost immediately were inadequate to contend with the solemn, ethereal, white pervasion of the night that still hung in the window, and lay upon the floor, and showed the gaunt bare tree outside. They only gave a yellow cast to the circle in which the party sat, and made their faces seem less pallid and unnatural.