"The accused is not guilty. Landolin! you are free."
Landolin sees gathering about him his lawyer, his son, Tobias, and several jurymen and old friends. He sits on the bench, nods silently, and tears that he cannot keep back roll down his cheek.
"Father, don't weep; rejoice!" cried Peter. But in a moment a different cry is heard. The spectators had crowded noisily out of the building, and announced the verdict to the many people waiting in the corridor, on the stairs, and in front of the court-house. And now one could hear loud cries of "the murderer's released!" then yells, whistles, and threatening exclamations from the keepers and guards.
"Wait until the mob has scattered," said the host of the Ritter, who was one of the jury, "you will put up with me. I have ordered a good meal to be prepared for you and your guests."
Landolin had regained his self-command, and answered in a clear voice: "Yes; serve as good a meal as you can, and invite all the jurymen. The other six are not my enemies. I--I will never have another enemy in the world."
"Father, I would like to give Titus a special invitation."
"Do so. Didn't I say that for the few years I have yet to live, I will be nobody's enemy?"
The electric spark flashes over the wire, knocks at the station of the little town where the stationmaster is still awake, and soon the brother of the "Galloping Cooper" ascends the hill.
On this still summer night a current of fresh air streams through the valley and over the hilltops. The ripe blades of wheat sway to and fro as they draw their last breaths. All nature is silent, save the river which rushes through the valley. The men are all resting from the hard work of the harvest, to begin again with renewed strength at the first glimmer of the morning sunshine.
Up the white mountain road moves a man who often presses his hand to his breast pocket, as if to convince himself that he had not lost the dispatch.
In Landolin's house a light is still burning. Thoma sits at the table, and stares at the candle. Her features are changed by bitterness and pain, and the lips that once so sweetly smiled, so warmly kissed, are tightly compressed. Will those lips ever smile again; ever kiss again?
Her mother reclines at the open window, and looks out into the night.