He asked another main question.
"Why did you leave Ireland?"
"To make money."
"You couldn't do it there?"
"They were too many for me over there, so I thought I'd come here," slyly
answered Crozier, and with a grave face; at which the solemn scene of a
prisoner being tried for his life was shaken by a broad smiling, which in
some cases became laughter haughtily suppressed by the court attendant.
"Have you made money here?"
"A little--with expectations."
"What was your income in Ireland?"
"It began with three thousand pounds--"
"Fifteen thousand dollars about?"
"About that--about a lawyer's fee for one whisper to a client less than
that. It began with that and ended with nothing."
"Then you escaped?"
"From creditors, lawyers, and other such? No, I found you here."
The judge intervened again almost harshly on the laughter of the court,
with the remark that a man was being tried for his life; that ribaldry
was out of place; and that, unless the course pursued by the counsel was
to discredit the reliability of the character of the witness, the
examination was in excess of the privilege of counsel.
"Your honour has rightly apprehended what my purpose is," Burlingame said
deprecatingly. He then turned to Crozier again, and his voice rose as it
did when he began the examination. It was as though he was starting all
over again.
"What was it compelled" (he was boldly venturing) "you to leave Ireland
at last? What was the incident which drove you out from the land where
you were born--from being the owner of two thousand acres"--
"Partly bog," interposed Crozier.
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