Then the father, with a solemn earnestness, spoke to his son of that eternity whose shores his feet were touching. At this hour he would shirk no truth; he would encourage no false hope. And David listened; for this side of his father's character he had always had great respect, and in those first hours of remorse following the murder, not the least part of his suffering had been the fearful looking forward to the Divine vengeance which he could never fly from. But there had been _One_ with him that night, _One_ who is not very far from us at any time; and though David had but tremblingly understood His voice, and almost feared to accept its comfort, he was in those desperate circumstances when men cannot reason and philosophize, when nothing remains for them but to believe. "Dinna get by the truth, my dear lad; you hae committed a great sin, there is nae doubt o' that." "But God's mercy, I trust, is greater." "And you hae nothing to bring him from a' the years o' your life! Oh, David, David!" "I know," he answered sadly. "But neither had the dying thief. He only believed. Father, this is the sole hope and comfort left me now. Don't take it from me." Lorimer turned away weeping; yes, and praying, too, as men must pray when they stand powerless in the stress of terrible sorrows. At noon the twelve men summoned dropped in one by one, and the informal court was opened. David Lorimer admitted the murder, and explained the long irritation and the final taunt which had produced it. The testimony of the returned drovers supplemented the tragedy. If there was any excuse to be made, it lay in the disgraceful epithet applied to David and the scornful mention of his mother's race. There was, however, an unfavorable feeling from the first. The elder Lorimer, with his stern principles and severe manners, was not a popular man. David's proud, passionate temper had made him some active enemies; and there was not a man on the jury who did not feel as the sheriff had honestly expressed himself regarding David's conduct at the moment of the stampede. It touched all their prejudices and their interests very nearly; not one of them was inclined to blame Whaley for calling a man a coward who would not answer the demand for help at such an imperative moment. As to the Spanish element, it had always been an offence to Texans. There were men on the jury whose fathers had died fighting it; beside, there was that unacknowledged but positive contempt which ever attaches itself to a race that has been subjugated. Long before the form of a trial was over, David had felt the hopelessness of hope, and had accepted his fate. Not so his father. He pleaded with all his soul for his son's life. But he touched no heart there. The jury had decided on the death-sentence before they left their seats.