Williston began to tell the story of the night attack upon the Lazy S, when the galvanic Small jumped to his feet. The little lawyer touched him with a light hand. “Your honor,” he said, smoothly, “I object to that as incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial, and not binding on the defendant.” “Your honor,” interrupted Gordon, with great calmness, “we intend to show you before we get through that this testimony is competent, and that it is binding upon the defendant.” “Was the defendant there?” “The defendant was there.” The objection was overruled. So Williston told briefly but to the point the story of the night attack upon his home, of the defence by himself and his daughter, and of the burning of his house and sheds. Then he proceeded: “Suddenly, some one caught me from behind, my arms were pinioned to my sides, something was clapped over my mouth. I was flung over a horse and strapped to the saddle all in less time than it takes to tell it, and was borne away in company with the man who had overpowered me.” He paused a moment in his recital. Faces strained with expectancy devoured him—his every look and word and action. Mary was very pale, carried thus back to the dread realities of that night in August, and shuddered, remembering that ghastly galloping. Langford could scarce restrain himself. He wanted to rip out a blood curdling Sioux war-whoop on the spot. “Who was this man, Mr. Williston?” asked Gordon. “Jesse Black.” Small was on his feet again, gesticulating wildly. “I object! This is all a fabrication, put in here to prejudice the minds of the jury against this defendant. It is a pack of lies, and I move that it be stricken from the record.” The little lawyer bowed his head to the storm and shrugged up his shoulders. Perhaps he wished that he, or his associate—one of the unholy alliance at least—was where the wicked cease from troubling, on the far away islands of the deep seas, possibly, or home on the farm. But his expression told nothing. “Gentlemen! gentlemen!” expostulated Judge Dale. “Gentlemen! I insist. This is all out of order.” Only one gentleman was out of order, but that was the Judge’s way. Gordon had remained provokingly cool under the tirade. Again the soft touch. Small fell into his chair. He poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher standing on the attorneys’ table and drank a little of it nervously. “I move,” said the little lawyer, “that all this touching upon the personal matter of this witness and having to do with his private quarrels be stricken out of the evidence as not bearing on the case in question.” All in vain. The Judge ruled that it did bear on the case, and Williston picked up the thread of his story.