Boyce turned to him
with his charming smile and said: "Thanks, old man." Again the
tumult broke out. Men cheered and women wept and waved wet
handkerchiefs. And he stood smiling at his unseen audience. When
he spoke, his deep, beautifully modulated voice held everyone
under its spell, and he spoke modestly and gaily like a brave
gentleman. I bent forward, as far as I was able, and scanned his
face. Never once, during the whole ceremony, did the tell-tale
twitch appear at the corners of his lips. He stood there the
incarnation of the modern knights sans fear and sans reproach.
I cannot tell which of the two, he or Sir Anthony, the more moved
my wondering admiration. Each exhibited a glorious defiance.
You may say that Boyce, receiving in his debonair fashion the
encomiums of the man whom he had wronged, was merely exhibiting
the familiar callousness of the criminal. If you do, I throw up my
brief. I shall have failed utterly to accomplish my object in
writing this book. I want no tears of sensibility shed over Boyce.
I want you to judge him by the evidence that I am trying to put
before you. If you judge him as a criminal, it is my poor
presentation of the evidence that is at fault.
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