The mournful voice of a negro singing in the next cell came to him faintly: "We'll hunt no moah fo' de possum and de coon, On de medder, de hill, an' de shoah.
We'll sing no moah by de glimmer ob de moon, On de bench by de old cabin doah.
"De days go by like de shadow on do heart, Wid sorrer, wha' all wuz so bright; De time am come when do darkies hab to part-- Den, my ole Kaintucky home, good night." Sandy's arm was against the grating and his head was bowed upon it.
Through all the hours of trial one image had sustained him.

It was of Ruth, as he had seen her last, leaning toward him out of the half-light, her brown hair blowing from under her white cap and her great eyes full of wondering compassion.
But to-night the darkness obscured even that image.

The judge's life still hung in the balance, and the man who had shot him lay in a distant city, unconscious, waiting for death.

Sandy felt that by his sacrifice he had put the final barrier between himself and Ruth.
With a childish gesture of despair, he flung out his arms and burst into a passion of tears.

The intense emotional impulse of his race swept him along like a feather in a gale.