It was bludgeon against rapier which began yesterday; it was the battle-axe against the stiletto; it was Osborne against Molineux; and Molineux won.

Never, I think, was so dramatic a duel fought out in a court-room. There was very little noise. The surface of it was quiet as a pool. The casual observer would have seen merely two men—the one in the witness chair and the other lounging against the lawyers’ table—who seemed to be exchanging polite commonplaces. They were courteous. Now and again they smiled at each other, with polite amiability. They “mistered” each other. Yet underneath this unrippled surface was a tremendous tragic depth, in which they clutched and struggled, fierce and silent. It was a fight for life. For Molineux it was life and honor—or the throttling shame of the electric chair. For Osborne it was either a vindication of his methods as a prosecuting officer, or it was bitter defeat. He was fighting for his professional life as truly as the haggard prisoner was fighting for the breath of life.

Never again will you see such a battle waged—so tense, so watchful, so merciless.

Molineux, to be sure, came pallid and wasted from the cell where they have shut him up for nearly four years. He had the look of one of those mouldy men who creep up into the sunlight now and then from the cellars of the world. But no sooner had he taken his seat in the witness chair, no sooner had he faced his adversary, than the race showed in him. He threw back his prison-worn head and squared his shoulders; he set his jaws until his thin lips made a straight line, like a sabre gash, across his face. He was ready; every nerve and ounce of brain in him was alert. He was ready to do battle for his life. The apathy and sluggishness of the cell-dweller fell away from him. In this supreme moment he was almost the man he had been before they arrested him and put him away.

As for Osborne, he was flushed, savagely earnest. His eyes blazed whether he would or not, and every now and again he smote his great red hands together. The joy of battle was upon him. Such joy the Apache knows when he sights his enemy; such joy must have stirred the gladiator when he rushed into the arena. To be sure this exaltation did not last through the day, but for a few hours it added zest to the duel.

Just such a mob as should have watched this duel gathered in the court-room. Heaven knows where they came from—these women with out-of-date clothes and pendent earrings; these perfumed girls with slashing hats and equivocal eyes. They crowded in, guarded by fatted municipal underlings; they filled one-third of the court-room; and all day, like cigarette girls at a bullfight, they chewed sweetmeats and craned and whispered and grinned. Then there were those who had business there—that honest, white old man, General Molineux, unwavering in belief in his “boy,” for one; for another, there was Harry Cornish—gray from head to foot this one. He was dressed in gray; his gloves were gray; his very face was gray, and the eyes in his deep-lined face were the color of ashes. All day he sat watching the prisoner with swift, furtive glances; watching the reporters; watching the audience; always watching, watching.

There was never so observing a man.

What of Molineux? He made an excellent witness. He gave an impression of utter sincerity. Perhaps this was due to Mr. Black’s admirable examination. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he was telling the truth. In any case, he scored heavily. The jurymen nodded approval. Had the case gone to them last night they would have given him—beyond all doubt—the key of the street. Molineux, too, looked content.

The Assistant District Attorney began slowly. Round-shouldered, stooping a bit, in an ill-fitting new coat, with red face and prognathous jaw, he stood for a moment staring at the prisoner. His eyes were burned out as though from lack of sleep. Molineux straightened up in his chair and joined his hands in his lap. Evidently he was summoning all his resolution and all his self-possession. At last he was face to face with the man who for nearly four years had bent every energy of his fierce nature to the task of destroying him; of blackening his home, and branding him with the red mark of murder. And this he knew would be the fiercest assault of all—the final one. He was on guard.

They crossed swords very ceremoniously at first. Beneath all the politeness there was, on one side, a deadly and savage earnestness; on the other was the wariness of the man whose back is to the wall and who fences for his life. And yet how suave they were! They might have been rehearsing the amiable history of Gaston and Alphonse. It was “Mr. Molineux” and “Mr. Osborne.” One almost expected the “My dear Mr. Molineux” and “My dear Mr. Osborne.” And so, with a curious, almost artificial smile on his red and heavy face, the great Apache of the District-Attorney’s office began. He wanted to know about the divorce case.

“How old were you, Mr. Molineux?” he asked.

“Fifteen, Mr. Osborne,” was the answer.

Mr. Osborne looked painfully shocked; just so a man might look should he be arrested as a burglar while making a midnight call upon a friend.

“Fifteen!” he repeated. “And the husband was a dear personal friend of yours, was he not?”

Molineux acknowledged that he knew the husband. The prosecutor nodded significantly to the jurymen. They, being men of the world, and some of them bull-necked men of the world, did not seem to take it very seriously. Molineux seemed rather ashamed of it. Osborne, however, would not let go. Three times he went over it, as a woman wipes a dish, turning it first on this side and then on that. At last the good gray judge wearied of it.

“He’s already answered all that,” he said quietly.

Osborne flashed up like gunpowder. All the savagery in him showed in an instant. It was as though a bulldog had shown his teeth. He took a step forward toward the bench and half snarled, half shouted:

“Your Honor, I can’t cross-examine this witness if you interrupt me like that!”

Mr. Jerome clutched his assistant’s arm and tried to quiet him, but Osborne shook him off. Justice Lambert looked at him and smiled his enigmatic, up-the-State smile.

“I will interrupt you, Mr. Osborne,” he said, “whenever I think it necessary. Now go on.”

Mr. Osborne went back to his place and drank a large glass of water. That soothed him, but for the rest of the session his nerves were out of tune, and then the burden of politeness lay heavy upon him. Then for a little while he questioned the prisoner as to his knowledge of chemistry. Molineux admitted that his attainments were fairly good. He knew of it all a paint maker need know.

So far Osborne had been defeated all along the line. The defendant had answered every question unhesitatingly and with engaging frankness. He had parried every thrust, even that deadly lunge of his fifteen-year-old co-respondent.

The Assistant District Attorney seemed to think in lumps. He jumped backward and forward in his cross-examination in a way that would have baffled an ordinary witness.

Never once, however, did he lead Molineux into a quagmire. Osborne sat down, drank a glass of water, and whispered to Jerome. While his adversary sought for a new weapon, Molineux turned and looked through the green-shaded window. For an instant the alert air of self-possession, the look of the ready swordsman, fell away from his face. The old, weary prison look crept over it. It was as though a mask had slipped from some tired dancer’s face. He looked haggard, yellow, old. As he turned he saw, just over his head, the cruel Roman symbol of vengeance—the faces and the axe; saw, too, the calm women who spin the thread of life, crouching on the shadowy, frescoed wall, a naked skull at their feet. Something seemed to grip his throat. He strangled a moment, then he coughed and spat. With a sudden gesture he drew his hands across his eyes and pulled himself together. Osborne’s burnt-out eyes were fixed on him. At that very instant he had himself in hand again. From that moment he never for a second lowered his guard. His attention was persistent as the pull of a magnet. His will was like steel. He shunned every quagmire and escaped every pitfall with marvellous dexterity, and with seeming unconsciousness that he had passed the peril by.

He is an extraordinary man. The brain in him is first rate. His intelligence is high above the average. Withal there seems no insincerity in him. He was fighting for his life, but he talked as calmly as though he had been in a drawing-room. Not only did he answer every question, he went out of his way to volunteer information. He answered questions to which his counsel objected until Mr. Black said: “Oh, well, let him answer—let him tell everything.” And it was this very frankness that at first confused and finally baffled the great Apache of the prosecution. Moreover, his courtesy was charming. When Mr. Osborne floundered in the midst of an intricate sentence the defendant would help him out.

Gradually this told upon the Assistant District Attorney’s nerves. It is difficult to bully a polite, accomplished man, and Mr. Osborne’s successful cross-examinations have always been those in which he banged the witness about the ears with a bludgeon. An hour before the usual time for the adjournment of court he had had enough of it. To his ill-concealed discontent he was told to go on with his cross-examination. He shifted from subject to subject, playing, as it were, round the case. Always the little prisoner met him, cool, efficient, ready. At last, upon the insistence of District-Attorney Jerome, an adjournment was granted. Mr. Osborne went away to furbish up new weapons for to-day.

Molineux stood up. He glanced at the jury. They were whispering together. Evidently it had been a good day for the defence. The rapier had mastered the bludgeon. And as he stood there, waiting for the jailmen to take him to his cell and lock him in, his father came up, a smile on his careworn, tragic face, and laid one arm around his neck.

“I am proud of you, my boy,” he said; “proud of you.”

That was bravely said. It is easy enough to be proud of a son who wins his way in the world and gets honor and fame. It is finer, perhaps, to be proud of the son who carries himself well in the hour of black shame and peril; who can bear himself well even though the next day may send him to the electric chair. What was he proud of, the old fighting man? Of the good blood, perhaps, that flows the steadier the greater the danger is.

For fifteen fateful minutes Molineux was on the stand this morning.

Assistant District-Attorney Osborne had spent the greater part of the night preparing for his promised attack. He had assured the court that he would occupy two hours in probing the pallid little man who stands charged with murder. He promised a sensation.

“Osborne has something up his sleeve,” said the lawyers.

The spectators buzzed it among themselves.

“Osborne has something up his sleeve!”

And so he had; but it was only his arm. The expected did not happen. The sensation did not materialize. And yet Molineux could not foretell this when he took his seat in the witness chair and clasped his nervous hands upon his knee. He was cold and white and firm; watchful, too, for Osborne faced him with an air of savage concentration.

It was the crisis of the trial. It was the crucial moment. It was the crossroads, whence one path led to freedom and the other ran darkly away to shame and death. Molineux knew it. Osborne knew it. They eyed each other like men who are to meet in the death struggle. The Assistant District Attorney was evidently nervous. He moistened his lips with ice water and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Then he threw one leg across the table in his free and easy way and leaned forward. Having failed by direct questions to tangle the little prisoner in the net, he attacked him indirectly—and not very chivalrously—by dragging in the name of that unhappy woman who is now Molineux’s wife. Of course, from the viewpoint of a prosecuting officer, all is fair in law. It is fair to help a witness, fair to throw mud at a woman—even though she is outside the case and aloof—but it is not always wise. In a low voice he began questioning the prisoner.

“Did Barnet pay any attention to your wife?” he asked.

Molineux’s face hardened. He brought his jaws together; a glimmer like that of steel leaped into his misty eyes; but that was all. He answered the question quietly enough, but it was evident that the introduction of his wife’s name touched him on the raw. All that was chivalrous in him came to the surface. And in spite of the fact that he was rusted in prison for four years, there is still a deal of chivalry in him.

He admitted that Barnet had paid many attentions to Miss Cheeseborough in the days before he and she had become betrothed. It was another indirect way of getting Barnet into the case and of insinuating a motive for murder.

“Did you give your wife an engagement ring?” the Assistant District Attorney asked.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“I should like to explain that, Mr. Osborne.”

“I am not trying to entrap you, Mr. Molineux,” said the prosecutor, sweetly, “but suppose you answer my question. Wasn’t that ring bought November 18, 1898—one week after Barnet died?”

“There were two rings,” said Molineux.

Then he told the story of the ring. It was a strange romance to listen to in the stifling home of crime. It was like a lily blooming in a pesthouse. As Molineux told it his voice softened into wonderful tenderness. He did not look at Osborne. He did not seem to see the jury or the crowded, morbid court-room. He was living again the days of love.

“There were two rings,” he repeated. “One was a mizpah ring—like this one,” and he drew the ring from his finger. “My mother gave this ring to me long ago. I have always worn it. Miss Cheeseborough admired it, and I gave her one like it for a Christmas present. Then, when we became engaged, she said that should be her engagement ring—she would have no other. But when we came to arrange for our wedding she decided that the mizpah ring should be our wedding ring. It was sentiment,” he added; “it was her wish. And so I bought the second ring, of which Mr. Osborne has just spoken.”

All this was said very simply. There was, however, such pathos in the voice, so fine a sincerity in the face, that the effect upon the jury and upon the audience was extraordinary. It was the first time that Molineux had shown his heart—he held it out for the Assistant District Attorney to peck at. And there was a pause. Mr. Osborne fumbled his papers and hesitated. Then he asked a few unimportant questions, which did not mask his defeat. Abruptly he sat down. The famous duel had been fought and lost. Molineux had outpointed him at every turn. For a while the Mad Mullah of the District Attorney’s office sulked, refusing comfort. In vain Jerome hugged him round the neck and patted his shoulder.

It has lasted fifteen minutes. In that time the case was virtually tried. Osborne’s last attack was not his best. The Apache who goes out for a scalp should not loiter by the way to throw stones at a woman. So far from helping his case by bringing in Mrs. Molineux, he hurt it.

Osborne’s attack upon the prisoner’s wife paved the way for his most telling defeat. It opened the door for Molineux. It permitted him to recount the romance of the ring. It gave him an opportunity to show that there was more in him than a keen and wary brain—that there was a heart. And that went home to the jury. All the world loves love, and a juryman is like the rest of us—part of the world.

He gave Molineux his opportunity, for the man who defends a woman is always in the right.

And he used it superbly. There were no heroics. There was only the story of the ring. There was only romance. There was only a hint of true love and an old love story. That was all, but it turned the truculent prosecutor’s attack into utter defeat. Osborne knew it. Molineux knew it. The great cross-examiner’s promised flaying of Molineux had miscarried. Had Osborne been retained for the defence he could have done no more for the pallid little prisoner. He flung himself into his chair and sat there, gulping ice water, mopping his red face.

The prisoner kept his seat in the witness chair.

Governor Black arose. His hands in his pockets, a smile on his face, he looked at his client.

“I have no questions to ask,” he said cheerfully. “That is all, Mr. Molineux.”

The prisoner went back to his accustomed place. The old father got him by the hand. They laughed softly as they gripped hands. The little prisoner was years younger than he was two days ago. His eyes looked human and bright. At last he could see the sunlight shining. He and hope were together again. His lawyers shook his hand again and again. The old General whispered to him, proud and happy. It was as though the case was already won.

And it all happened in fifteen minutes—in ten minutes—in five minutes—while Molineux was telling the story of the ring.

A better witness never took the stand. Unguided, without a single interruption from his counsel, he foiled the great Apache of the prosecution at every turn. If he did not win his case, it is because the case is past winning. He won, at all events, the sympathy of the swarming spectators. He impressed, in any case, the wearied jurors.

Again it was rapier first and bludgeon second.