Beginning with the story of the watermelon, she repeated it in all its details, with many other incidents of Paul’s boyhood, dropping her spectacles once and pouring out a torrent of words which nothing could check and which started the boys again. It was in vain she was called to order, and finally threatened with punishment for contempt of court. She didn’t care for a hundred courts, she said, nor for lawyers, nor for law. There wasn’t any law when such a man as Paul Ralston could be arrested and put in jail and dragged there to be gaped at by a crowd who would much better be at home minding their business. She didn’t care if they did fine her. She could pay it. She didn’t care if they put her out of court, or in jail. She hoped they would, as then she wouldn’t have to testify against Paul. The Lord knew, she wasn’t there of her own free will, and she hoped He’d forgive her for swearing against the only man she ever cared a picayune for, outside her own family. She loved Paul Ralston and she wasn’t ashamed to say it, seein’ she might be his grandmother. There was an immense sensation in the gallery and among the spectators, with more growls from Sherry and thumps and cries for order from the judge, with a request that she stick to the point. “How can I stick,” she said, “with you interruptin’ me all the time? If you let me alone, I’ll tell what I know in my own way. If you don’t, I’ll never get there.” After that they let her alone. There was no other alternative, and, in a rambling way, with many digressions, and now and then a question from the prosecuting attorney, she told her story. She was sitting on her steps,—the more’s the pity; she wished she had been in the cellar and staid there. She saw Paul Ralston and spoke to him. He asked if they had seen Jack Percy; said he was looking for him; seemed kind of mad. Why shouldn’t he, after being knocked down like an ox? She heard the shot not long after, but saw no one fire it, or run, either, and “them that did see it might better have had their heads in the window reading their Bible.” This was a thrust at Elithe,—the only one she had given her,—and the young girl stirred a little in her chair, then resumed her attitude of perfect stillness and listened, while her aunt went on: She was first at the clump of bushes and found Jack with a bullet hole in his head. He was carried to her cottage and died there towards morning. Paul came in, surprised and shocked to find it was Jack who had been shot, and with no more signs of guilt than she had. She hunted for the revolver and couldn’t find it, but Seth Walker did. She took it from him and wished now she had thrown it into the sea. That was all she knew, so help her Heaven, and she wished the land she didn’t know that. To question her further was useless and she was turned over to the defense for cross-examination.