“We gave him a fair trial,” answered one of the leaders. “We know all the facts. He is guilty of killing his father. We don’t need any more proof—” “Are you one of the men who heard the story thirty years ago?” “Yes, I am—and I heard it straight.” “Then you must know that this poor boy was adjudged innocent of this crime on the day he was born,” fell slowly, distinctly from the lips of Josephine. “I will repeat the words of the gypsy woman. She said: ‘He will not commit a murder. He will be hanged for a crime he did not commit.’ Speak! Are not those the words of the gypsy?” Absolute silence ensued. It was as if the crowd had turned to stone. “And so,” she cried, leveling her finger at the men in the front rank, “you have done your part toward making the prophecy come true. You have hung Oliver October Baxter in spite of the fact that you were told thirty years ago that he would be innocent. It has all come out as the fortune-teller said it would. She read his future in the stars. She read it all from his own star—and, look ye, fools of Rumley, in yonder black dome a single star is shining. See! With your own blind eyes—see!” She lifted a hand and pointed majestically. Every eye followed the direction indicated by that dramatic forefinger. A star gleamed brightly in the southern sky, a single star in a desert of black. “That is the star of Oliver October Baxter. He was born under that star and, God help us all, I fear he has died beneath it. Out of all the great and endless firmament, that one star reveals itself to-night. Slink home, assassins! Murderers all! May the curse of that shining star fall upon ye—now, henceforth and forever! May ye never escape from the light of that great accusing eye, looking down upon you from Heaven! Slink home to your wives and children and tell them what ye have done this night!” But the mob stood rooted to the ground. A sudden shout went up from those in the front rank—a strange shout of relief. Oliver October was struggling to his feet, assisted by Jane and Lansing. His arms, released from their bonds, were thrown across their shoulders, his chin was high, he was coughing violently. “He’s all right!” yelled a man, and started eagerly forward only to fall back as Jane Sage held up her hand and screamed: “Keep away! You will have to kill me before you can touch him again, you beasts!” “Aw, I only want to help get him into the car—” “Stand back!” commanded Lansing. “We don’t need your help.” Three or four eager voices cried out shakily and in unison: “Take him to a doctor’s!” Then a tenser silence than before fell over the scene, for Jane was crying: “Are you all right, Oliver? Can you speak? What is it, dearest? What are you trying to say?” “Don’t try to speak yet, Baxter,” cautioned Lansing. “Plenty of time. You’re all right. You’ll be yourself in a few minutes. Thank God, we got here when we did.”