But the judge checked him. “The evidence is admissible, sir,” he said. “The officer testified that the defendant was trying to leave the country. Now it is quite in order for the defense to show that some other motive than escape induced the defendant to enter the swamp where he was arrested.” The dry voice resumed: “So you were carving an Indian maiden for the little girl who did not believe you burned the store. Is that it?” “Yes, sir. Her father said she was cryin’ an’ wouldn’t go to Sunday-school.” “Do you see the little girl in court?” “Yes, sir. That’s her. Settin’ thar on the front bench with her ma.” There was a general commotion. People in the rear of the court-room stood up. The jury all looked toward that front bench, while a mother and a little girl in a blue dress both blushed scarlet. And now a strange thing was happening: Old Colonel Donaldson, his manner still perfectly impersonal, had walked over to the table below the clerk’s desk and opened a bundle. “I submit this in evidence, Your Honor. Here is the Indian girl he was carving. Does Your Honor care to look at it? You will observe that it is half stained, showing where the work was interrupted by the advent of the officer.” The judge took it and inspected it, a smile on his strong-lined face. He handed it back, and the colonel walked over to the jury. “Pass it around, gentlemen,” he directed, “from one to the other.” And now the astonished old man in the witness box saw the whole court-room seem to move forward, people leaving their seats to peer; heard over and over the sheriff’s “Silence in the court!” and saw on the faces of the jury that passed the carved bit of wood from hand to hand the smiles of fathers and grandfathers who would like to take it home to the children. But his relief was short-lived: Burton Evans had pounced on him. The questions came thick and fast, after the old man had told the story of his movements that night. Cattle in the swamp? What cattle? Wasn’t he a little over-anxious about another man’s cattle--a man he owed rent to? (No objection from Colonel Donaldson.) Did he have owl’s eyes that he could find his way about on a pitch-black night? If his mission were an honest one, why didn’t he light a lantern? Was it his custom to draw back and hide from passers-by? Was it his custom not to acknowledge a friendly greeting in the road? Did he usually sleep as sound as he slept that night? But old Jeff, buffeted about like an untrained boxer standing before a professional, managed somehow to keep on his feet, to stick to the truth, though the sweat stood out on his face, and his limp old hat was twisted into a rag, and the crowd and jury swam round and round before him. Groggy, he came down at last, though not until the judge himself had interposed in his behalf, and not until the eyes of the jury were full of compassion, and not until from the front bench came the voice of a mother trying to quiet a sobbing child.