There, in full view of all the attendants, in full view of the jury--and of John Randolph of Roanoke, its foreman--sat the two persons who had had most to do with this scene of which they now made a part. There sat the man who had explored the great West, and the woman who had done her best to prevent that exploration; Mr. Jefferson's friend, and the daughter of the great conspirator, Aaron Burr. Ergo, ergo, said many tongues swiftly--and leaned head to head to whisper it. Mind sometimes speaks to mind--even across the rail of a jury-box. Sympathy runs deep and swift sometimes. All the world loved Meriwether Lewis then, would favor him--or favor what he favored.
The issue of that great trial was not to come for weeks as yet; but when it came, and by whatever process, Aaron Burr was acquitted of the charges brought against him. The republic for whose downfall he had plotted set him free and bade him begone.
But now, at the close of this day, the two central figures of the tragic drama found themselves together once more. They could be alone nowhere but in the prison room; and it was there that they parted.
Between them, as they stood now at last, about to part, there stretched an abysmal gulf which might never personally be passed by either.
She faced him at length, trembling, pleading, helpless.
"How mighty a thing is a man's sense of honor!" she said slowly. "You have done what I never would have asked you to do, and I am glad that you did. I once asked you to do what you would not do, and I am glad that you did not. How can I repay you for what you have done today? I cannot tell how, but I feel that you have turned the tide for us. Ah, if ever you felt that you owed me anything, it is paid--all your debt to me and mine. See, I no longer weep. You have dried my tears!"
"We cannot balance debits and credits," he replied. "There is no way in the world in which you and I can cry quits. Only one thing is sure--I must go!"
"I cannot say good-by!" said she. "Ah, do not ask me that! We are but beginning now. Oh, see! see!"
He looked at her still, an unspeakable sadness in his gaze--at her hand, extended pleadingly toward him.
"Won't you take my hand, Merne?" said she. "Won't you?"
"I dare not," said he hoarsely. "No, I dare not!"
"Why? Do you wish to leave me still feeling that I am in your debt? You can afford so much now," she said brokenly, "for those who have not won!"