The first I heard was Starlight's voice again, just as cool and leisurely as ever.I never heard any difference in it, and I've known him speak in a lot of different situations.If you shut your eyes you couldn't tell from the tone of his voice whether he was fighting for his life or asking you to hand him the salt.When he said the hardest and fiercest thing -- and he could be hard and fierce -- he didn't raise his voice;he only seemed to speak more distinct like.His eyes were worse than his voice at such times.There weren't many men that liked to look back at him, much less say anything.
Now he said, `That means five years of Berrima, Dick, if not seven.
It's cooler than these infernal logs, that's one comfort.'
I said nothing.I couldn't joke.My throat was dry, and I felt hot and cold by turns.I thought of the old hut by the creek, and could see mother sitting rocking herself, and crying out loud, and Aileen with a set dull look on her face as if she'd never speak or smile again.I thought of the days, months, years that were to pass under lock and key, with irons and shame and solitude all for company.
I wondered if the place where they shut up mad people was like a gaol, and why we were not sent there instead.
I heard part of what the judge said, but not all -- bits here and there.
The jury had brought in a most righteous verdict; just what he should have expected from the effect of the evidence upon an intelligent, well-principled Nomah jury.(We heard afterwards that they were six to six, and then agreed to toss up how the verdict was to go.)`The crime of cattle and horse stealing had assumed gigantic proportions.
Sheep, as yet, appeared to be safe; but then there were not very many within a few hundred miles of Nomah.It appeared to him that the prisoner known as Starlight, though from old police records his real name appeared to be ----'
Here he drew himself up and faced the judge in defiance.Then like lightning he seemed to change, and said --`Your Honour, I submit that it can answer no good purpose to disclose my alleged name.There are others -- I do not speak for myself.'
The judge stopped a bit; then hesitated.Starlight bowed.
`I do not -- a -- know whether there is any necessity to make public a name which many years since was not better known than honoured.
I say the -- a -- prisoner known as Starlight has, from the evidence, taken the principal part in this nefarious transaction.
It is not the first offence, as I observe from a paper I hold in my hand.
The younger prisoner, Marston, has very properly been found guilty of criminal complicity with the same offence.It may be that he has been concerned in other offences against the law, but of that we have no proof before this court.He has not been previously convicted.I do not offer advice to the elder criminal;his own heart and conscience, the promptings of which I assume to be dulled, not obliterated, I feel convinced, have said more to him in the way of warning, condemnation, and remorse than could the most impressive rebuke, the most solemn exhortation from a judicial bench.
But to the younger man, to him whose vigorous frame has but lately attained the full development of early manhood, I feel compelled to appeal with all the weight which age and experience may lend.I adjure him to accept the warning which the sentence I am about to pass will convey to him, to endure his confinement with submission and repentance, and to lead during his remaining years, which may be long and comparatively peaceful, the free and necessarily happy life of an honest man.
The prisoner Starlight is sentenced to seven years' imprisonment;the prisoner Richard Marston to five years' imprisonment;both in Berrima Gaol.'
I heard the door of the dock unclose with a snap.We were taken out;I hardly knew how.I walked like a man in his sleep.`Five years, Berrima Gaol! Berrima Gaol!' kept ringing in my ears.
The day was done, the stars were out, as we moved across from the courthouse to the lock-up.The air was fresh and cool.The sun had gone down;so had the sun of our lives, never to rise again.
Morning came.Why did it ever come again? I thought.What did we want but night? -- black as our hearts -- dark as our fate -- dismal as the death which likely would come quick as a living tomb, and the sooner the better.
Mind you, I only felt this way the first time.All men do, I suppose, that haven't been born in gaols and workhouses.Afterwards they take a more everyday view of things.
`You're young and soft, Dick,' Starlight said to me as we were rumbling along in the coach next day, with hand and leg-irons on, and a trooper opposite to us.`Why don't I feel like it? My good fellow, I have felt it all before.But if you sear your flesh or your horse's with a red-hot iron you'll find the flesh hard and callous ever after.
My heart was seared once -- ay, twice -- and deeply, too.
I have no heart now, or if I ever feel at all it's for a horse.
I wonder how old Rainbow gets on.'
`You were sorry father let us come in the first time,' I said.
`How do you account for that, if you've no heart?'
`Really! Well, listen, Richard.Did I? If you guillotine a man -- cut off his head, as they do in France, with an axe that falls like the monkey of a pile-driver -- the limbs quiver and stretch, and move almost naturally for a good while afterwards.
I've seen the performance more than once.So I suppose the internal arrangements immediately surrounding my heart must have performed some kind of instinctive motion in your case and Jim's.
By the way, where the deuce has Jim been all this time? Clever James!'
`Better ask Evans here if the police knows.It is not for want of trying if they don't.'
`By the Lord Harry, no!' said the trooper, a young man who saw no reason not to be sociable.`It's the most surprisin' thing out where he's got to.
They've been all round him, reg'lar cordon-like, and he must have disappeared into the earth or gone up in a balloon to get away.'