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All
at
once
a
light
is
seen
to
flask
into
his
eyes
--
sunken
as
they
are
in
the
midst
of
two
livid
circles
.
He
has
the
air
of
one
on
the
eve
of
making
confession
.
Is
it
to
be
an
acknowledgment
of
guilt
?
Is
he
about
to
unburden
his
conscience
of
the
weight
that
must
be
on
it
?
The
spectators
,
guessing
his
intention
,
stand
breathlessly
observing
him
.
There
is
silence
even
among
the
cicadas
.
It
is
broken
by
the
formalised
interrogatory
of
the
judge
?
"
Have
you
anything
to
say
why
sentence
of
death
should
not
be
pronounced
upon
you
?
"
"
No
!
"
he
replies
,
"
I
have
not
.
The
jury
has
given
a
just
verdict
.
I
acknowledge
that
I
have
forfeited
my
life
,
and
deserve
to
lose
it
.
"
Not
during
all
the
day
--
despite
its
many
strange
incidents
and
startling
surprises
--
have
the
spectators
been
so
astonished
.
They
are
confounded
beyond
the
power
of
speech
;
and
in
silence
permit
the
condemned
man
to
proceed
,
with
what
they
now
perceive
to
be
his
confession
.
"
It
is
quite
true
,
"
continues
he
,
"
that
I
killed
Henry
Poindexter
--
shot
him
dead
in
the
chapparal
.
"
The
declaration
is
answered
by
a
cry
from
the
crowd
.
It
is
altogether
involuntary
,
and
expresses
horror
rather
than
indignation
.
