At 10 o'clock the Aimes brothers were brought before the bar. The jury was already selected and the trial was at once taken up. I was put upon the stand and instructed to tell my story without any fear of reflecting too much credit upon myself. I could see that they wanted a thrilling recital and I gave it to them. And when Alf followed, he found them eager for more. The prosecuting attorney made a speech, as red as the fire that had burned the school-house; the lawyer appointed for the defence made a few cool remarks, and the case was closed. We were anxious to take the verdict home with us, and we had made preparations to remain over night, but the jury came to an agreement without leaving the box, so we had nothing to do but to return home. The Aimes brothers were given a term of fifteen years each in the penitentiary. The sun was down when we got upon the buck-board, and over the road we drove, under the stars, our stars, for in sympathy they looked down upon us. The moon was late, but we preferred the dark--it was sadder. "I wonder how it's all going to end," said Alf. "If we could only rip apart that black thing down the road and look into the future." "And if you could rip it," I replied, "if you could and were about to do so, I would grab your hand with a harder grip than I gave the gun when I caught the hammers." "Then you don't want to know? You'd rather continue to writhe on the gridiron than to turn over and fall into the fire and end the matter?" "Alf," said I, "does it strike you that we are a couple of as big fools as ever drove along a county road?" "Whoa!" he shouted, pulling upon the reins and stopping the horse. And then he laughed. "Fools; why, two idiots are two Solomons compared with us. Let's stop it; let's be sensible; let's be men." "I'm with you, Alf. Shake hands." We drove along in silence. After a long time he said: "Here's where she crossed the road; and do you see that?" he asked, pointing to the Milky Way. "That was done by the waving of her hand. I wish to the Lord I knew just how much she thinks of Dan Stuart." "Ah, but that wouldn't relieve you," I replied, "for I know how much Guinea thinks of Chyd Lundsford and feel all the worse for it. There are always two hopes, walking with a doubt, one on each side, but a certainty walks alone." "I reckon you are right," he rejoined with a sigh. "How many strange things love will make a man say, things that an unpoisoned man would never think of. Poisoned is the word, Bill; and I'll bet that if I'd bite a man it would kill him in a minute." "What sort of a fellow is young Lundsford?" I asked, with my teeth set and my feet braced against the dashboard. "Oh, he ain't a bad fellow; he ain't our sort exactly, but he's all right." "Smart and full of poetry, isn't he?"