"He who was dead has come back at your summons, John Elms," exclaimed the stranger slowly. "He whom you cast to destruction has returned to convict you."
The would-be murderer neither spoke nor moved. A deadly silence lay upon all. Women outside fled away screaming—"The doctor's riz from the grave and come back." Children scampered down the avenue crying, "A ghost!—a real, live ghost!"
Police pushed their way into the assemblage, their faces almost as white as their helmets.
"Take that man," cried the doctor in unmistakable accents. "I am a magistrate, as you know; I will sign the charge-sheet later. Arrest him on my information for attempt to commit murder. You came here to witness the eviction of honest owners of the soil. You can take with you the spoiler and wrongful possessor."
The doctor's manner was commanding. The guardians of the peace made their way through the bewildered company, mounted the platform, and laid hands on the abject creature almost slipping from the chair.
"Come on, Mr Elms," they said. The wretched man, still hiding his face in his hands, writhed in the chair and groaned. They raised him, supported him across the platform, down the room, his face still covered in his trembling hands. He verily believed he had looked upon the dead. All night in the log-house he moaned to himself—"The face from the grave! The voice of the dead!"
Not a word was spoken as the self-convicted culprit was removed. Then Brown seized and wrung the doctor's hands. One by one the men plucked up courage, and with some shame-facedness approached him they had cursed so hard and so long. He received them quietly.
