As the Crown counsel sat down, a low murmur ran through the Court, whose meaning it would be difficult to define; for if the greater number present were carried away by the indignant eloquence of the pleader to believe Cashel a hardened criminal, some few still seemed to cling to his side, and bent their eyes towards the dock with looks of sympathy and comfort. And oh, how little know they, whose eyes are beaming with the bright spark that warms their generous hearts, what loadstars are they to him who stands alone, forsaken, and accused in the criminal dock! What a resting-place does the weary and tired soul feel that glance of kindly meaning! How does it speak to his bruised and wounded spirit of hope and charity! What energy will it impart to the fast-failing courage! what self-respect and self-reliance to him who, a few moments back, was sinking beneath the abasement of despair!

Such was the effect now produced upon Roland Cashel. The array of circumstances, so formidably marshalled by his accuser, had completely overwhelmed him; the consciousness of innocence failed to support him against the feeling which he saw spreading like a mist around him. Against the accusation—against its fearful penalty—his own stout heart could sustain him; but how bear up against the contempt and the abhorrence of his fellow-men! Under the crushing weight of this shame he was sinking fast, when a stray glance—a chance expression of interest, like sunlight piercing a dark cloud—gave promise that all was not lost. He felt that there were yet some who wished to believe him guiltless, and that all sympathy for him had not yet died out.

“Does the prisoner desire to avail himself of the privilege he possesses to call witnesses to character?” asked the judge.

“No, my Lord,” said Cashel, firmly, but respectfully. “Since my accession to fortune, my life has been passed for the most part in what is called the 'fashionable world;' and from what I have seen of it, the society does not seem rich in those persons whose commendations, were they to give them, would weigh heavily with your Lordship. Besides, they could say little to my praise, which the learned counsel has not already said to my disparagement,—that I had the command of wealth, and squandered it without taste and without credit.”

Few and insignificant as were these words, the easy and fearless mode of their delivery, the manly energy of him who spoke them, seemed to produce a most favorable impression throughout the court, which as rapidly reacted upon Cashel; for now the embers of hope were fanned, and already glowed into a slight flicker.

“The prisoner having waived his privilege, my Lord,” said the Attorney-General, “I beg to observe that the case is now closed.”

“Is it too late, then, my Lord, for me to address a few words to the jury?” asked Roland, calmly.

“What say you, Mr. Attorney-General?” asked the judge.

“Your Lordship knows far better than I, that to address the Court at this stage of the proceedings, would be to concede the right of reply—and, in fact, of speaking twice; since the prisoner's not having availed himself of the fitting occasion to comment on the evidence, gives him not the slightest pretension to usurp another one.”

“Such is the law of the case,” said the judge, solemnly.

“I have nothing to observe against it, my Lord,” said Cashel. “If I have not availed myself of the privilege accorded to men placed as I am, I must only submit to the penalty my pride has brought upon me,—for it was pride, my Lord. Since that, however, another, and I hope a higher pride has animated me, to vindicate my character and my fame; so that, at some future day—a long future, it may be—when the true facts of this dark mystery shall be brought to light, a more cautious spirit will pervade men's minds as to the guilt of him assailed by circumstantial evidence. It might be, my Lord, that all I could adduce in my own behalf would weigh little against the weight of accusations which even to myself appear terribly consistent. I know, for I feel, how hard it would be to accept the cold unsupported narrative of a prisoner, in which many passages might occur of doubtful probability, some of even less credit, and some again of an obscurity to which even he himself could not afford the clew; and yet, with all these difficulties, enhanced tenfold by my little knowledge of the forms of a court, and my slender capacity, I regret, my Lord, that I am unable to address the few words I had intended to the jury,—less, believe me, to avert the shipwreck that awaits myself, than to be a beacon to some other who may be as solitary and unfriended as I am.”

These words, delivered with much feeling, but in a spirit of calm determination, seemed to thrill through the entire assemblage; and even the senior judge stopped to confer for some minutes with his brother on the bench, in evident hesitation what course to adopt. At length he said,—

“However we may regret the course you have followed in thus depriving yourself of that legitimate defence the constitution of our country provides, we see no sufficient reason to deviate from the common order of proceeding in like cases. I will now, therefore, address the jury, who have already heard your words, and will accord them any consideration they may merit.”

“It may be, my Lord,” said Cashel, “that evidence so strongly imbued with probability may induce the gentlemen in that box to believe me guilty; in which case, I understand, your Lordship would address to me the formal question, 'If I had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon me.' Now, if I am rightly informed, any observations of a prisoner at such a moment are regarded rather in the light of petitions for mercy, than as explanations or corrections of falsehood. I have, therefore, only now to say, that, whatever decision you may come to, the Court shall not be troubled further with interference of mine.”

The Judge bowed slightly, as if in reply to this, and began his charge; but the foreman of the jury, leaning forward, said that his fellow-jurors had desired him to ask, as a favor to themselves, that the prisoner might be heard. A short conference ensued between the Bench and the Crown counsel, which ended by the permission being accorded; and now Cashel rose to address the Court.

“I will not,” said he, “abuse the time of this Court by any irrelevant matter, nor will I advert to a single circumstance foreign to the substance of the charge against me. I purpose simply to give a narrative of the last day I passed with my poor friend, and to leave on record this detail as the solemn protestation of innocence of one who has too little to live for to fear death.”

With this brief preface he began a regular history of that eventful day, from the hour he had started from Tubbermore in company with Mr. Kennyfeck.

The reader is already familiar with every step and circumstance of that period, so that it is not necessary we should weary him by any recapitulation; enough if we say that Cashel proceeded with a minuteness devoid of all prolixity, to mention each fact as it occurred, commenting as he went on upon the evidence already given, and explaining its import without impugning its truth. Juries are ever disposed to listen favorably to a speaker who brings to his aid no other allies than candor and frankness, and who, without pretensions to legal acuteness, narrates facts with clear and distinctive precision. Leaving him, therefore, still speaking, and in the irresistible force of truth gradually winning upon his hearers, let us quit the court for a brief time, and passing through the crowded space before the doors, traverse the town, densely thronged by curious and eager visitors. We do not mean to linger with them, nor overhear the comments they passed upon the eventful scene beside them; our business is about a mile off, at a small public-house at a short distance from the roadside, usually frequented by cattle-dealers and the customers at the weekly markets. Here, in a meanly-furnished room, where, for it was now evening, a common dip candle shed its lugubrious yellow light upon the rude appliances of vulgar life, sat a man, whose eager expectancy was marked in every line of his figure. Every now and then he would arise from his chair, and, screening the candle from the wind, open the window to look out.

The night was dark and gusty; drifting rain beat at intervals against the glass, and seemed the forerunner of a great storm. The individual we have spoken of did not seem to care for, if he even noticed, the inclemency; he brushed the wet from his bushy beard and mustaches with indifference, and bent his ear to listen to the sounds upon the road in deepest earnestness. At last the sound of horses' feet and wheels was heard rapidly approaching, and a car drove up to the door, from which a man, wrapped up in a loose frieze coat, descended, and quickly mounted the stairs. As he reached the landing, the door of the room was thrown vide, and the other man, in a low, but distinct, voice said, “Well, what news?”

“All right,” said he of the frieze coat, as, throwing off the wet garment, he discovered the person of Mr. Clare Jones. “Nothing could possibly go better; my cross-examination clinched Keane's evidence completely, and no jury could get over it.”

“I almost wish you had let him alone,” said the other, gruffly, and in evident discontent; “I foresee that the sympathy the scoundrel affected will be troublesome to us yet.”

“I have no fears on that head,” replied the other, confidently. “The facts are there, and Crankle's speech to evidence ripped him up in a terrific manner.”

“Did he allude to the Spanish girl?”

“He did, and with great effect.”

“And the Kilgoff affair—did he bring 'My Lady' up for judgment?”

“No. The Attorney-General positively forbade all allusion to that business.”

“Oh, indeed!” said the other, with a savage sneer. “'The Court' was too sacred for such profanation.”

“I think he was right, too,” said Jones. “The statement could never have been brought to bear upon the case before the Court. It would have been a mere episode outside of the general history, and just as likely impress the Jury with the opinion that all the charges were trumped up to gain a conviction in any way.”

The other paused, and seemed to reflect for some minutes, when he said, “Well, what are they about now?”

“When I left, the Court had just refused Cashel's demand to address the jury. The Chief Baron had ruled against him, and, of course, the charge is now being pronounced. As I know how this must run, I took the opportunity of coming over here to see you.”

“My name was but once mentioned, you tell me,” said the other, in an abrupt manner.

“It was stated that you were dangerously ill, without hope of recovery,” said Jones, faltering, and with evident awkwardness.

“And not alluded to again?” asked the other, whom there is no need of calling Mr. Linton.

“Yes, once passingly,” said Jones, still faltering.

“How do you mean, passingly?” asked Linton, in anger.

“The Crown lawyers brought forward that note of yours from Ennismore.”

Linton dashed his closed fist against the table, and uttered a horrible and blasphemous oath.

“Some bungling of yours, I'll be sworn, brought this about,” said he, savagely; “some piece of that adroit chicanery that always recoils upon its projector.”

“I 'll not endure this language, sir,” said Jones. “I have done more to serve you than any man would have stooped to in my profession. Unsay those words.”

“I do unsay them. I ask pardon for them, my dear Jones. I never meant them seriously,” said Linton, in that fawning tone he could so well assume. “You ought to know me better than to think that I, who have sworn solemnly to make your fortune, could entertain such an opinion of you. Tell me now of this. Did Cashel say anything as the note was read?”

“Not a syllable.”

“How did he look?”

“He smiled slightly.”

“Ah, he smiled,” said Linton, growing pale; “he smiled! He can do that when he is most determined.”

“What avails all his determination now? No narrative of his can shake the testimony which the examination has confirmed. It was a masterstroke of yours, Mr. Linton, to think of supplying him with counsel.”

Linton smiled superciliously, as though he was accustomed to higher flights of treachery than this. “So then,” said he, at length, “you say the case is strong against him?”

“It could scarcely be stronger.”

“And the feeling—how is the feeling of the Court?”

“Variable, I should say; in the galleries, and among the fashionably dressed part of the assemblage, inclined somewhat in his favor.”

“How? Did not the charge of attempted bigamy tell against him with his fair allies?”

“Not so much as I had hoped.”

“What creatures women are!” said Linton, holding up his hands. “And how are they betting? What says Frobisher?”

“He affects to think it no case for odds; he says there 's a little fellow in the jury-box never was known to say 'Guilty.'”

“A scheme to win money,—a stale trick, my Lord Charles!” muttered Linton, contemptuously; “but I've no objection to hedge a little, for all that.”

“I must be going,” said Jones, looking at his watch; “the charge will soon be over, and I must look to the proceedings.”

“Will they be long in deliberation, think you?” asked Linton.

“I suspect not; they are all weary and tired. It is now ten o'clock.”

“I thought it later,” said Linton, thoughtfully; “time lags heavily with him whose mind is in expectancy. Hark! there is some one below talking of the trial! What says he?”

“He speaks of Cashel as still addressing the Court. Can they have consented to hear him, after all?”

A fearful curse broke from Linton, and he closed the door noiselessly.

“See to this, Jones; see to it speedily. My mind misgives me that something will go wrong.”

“You say that you know him thoroughly, and that he never would—”

“No, no,” broke in Linton, passionately; “he'll not break one tittle of his word, even to save his life! When he promised me that all should be secret between us, he made no reservations, and you 'll see that he 'll not avail himself of such privileges now. I do know him thoroughly.”

“Then what, or whence, is your fear?”

Linton made no other answer than a gesture of his hand, implying some vague and indistinct dread. “But go,” said he, “and go quickly. You ought never to have left the court. Had you remained, perhaps this might have been prevented. If all goes right, you 'll be here by daybreak at furthest, and Keane along with you. Take care of that, Jones; don't lose sight of him. If—if—we are unfortunate—and do you think such possible?”

“Everything is possible with a jury.”

“True,” said he, thoughtfully; “it is an issue we should never have left it to. But away; hasten back. Great Heaven! only to think how much hangs upon the next half-hour!”

“To Cashel, you mean?” said Jones, as he prepared himself for the road.

“No; I mean to me, I do know him thoroughly; and well I know the earth would be too narrow to live upon, were that man once more free and at liberty.”

In his eagerness for Jones's departure, he almost pushed him from the room; and then, when he had closed and locked the door again, he sat down beside the low flickering fire, and as the fitful light played upon his features, all the appliances of disguise he wore could not hide the terrible ravages that long corroding anxiety had made in him. Far more did he resemble the arraigned criminal than he who now stood in the dock, and with a cheek blanched only by imprisonment, waited calm, collected, and erect—“Equal to either fortune.”

Linton had often felt all the terrible suspense which makes the paradise or the hell of the gambler: he had known what it was to have his whole fortune on the issue, at a moment when the rushing mob of horsemen and foot concealed the winning horse from view, and mingled in their mad cheers the names of those whose victory had been his ruin and disgrace. He had watched the rolling die, on whose surface, as it turned, all he owned in the world was staked; he had sat gazing on the unturned card, on which his destiny was already written;—and yet all these moments of agonizing suspense were as nothing compared to that he now suffered, as he sat with bent down head trying to catch the sounds which from time to time the wind bore along from the town.

As if to feed his mind with hope, he would recapitulate to himself all the weighty and damnatory details which environed Cashel, and which, by their singular consistency and coherence, seemed irrefutable. He would even reckon them upon his fingers, as “so many chances against him.” He would try to imagine himself one of the jury, listening to the evidence and the charge; and asked himself “were it possible to reject such proofs?” He pictured to his mind Cashel addressing the Court with all that rash and impetuous eloquence so characteristic of him, and which, to more trained and sober tempers, would indicate a nature little subject to the cold discipline of restraint; and from all these speculative dreams he would start suddenly up, to lean out of the window and listen. Other thoughts, too, would cross his mind, scarcely less distracting. What would become of himself should Cashel escape? Whither should he retire? If, at one moment, he half resolved to “stand his ground” in the world, and trust to his consummate skill in secret calumny to ruin him, another reflection showed that Cashel would not play out the game on these conditions. A duel, in which one at least must fall, would be inevitable; and although this was an ordeal he had braved oftener than most men, he had no courage to dare it now. Through all this tangled web of harassing hope and fear, regrets deep and poignant entered, that he had not worked his ruin by slower and safer steps. “I might have been both judge and jury—ay, and executioner too,” muttered he, “had I been patient.” And here he gave a low, sardonic laugh. “When the hour of confiscation came, I might have played the Crown's part also.” But so is it: there is no halting in the downward course of wickedness; the very pleadings of self-interest cannot save men from the commission of crimes, by which they are to hide follies.

The slow hours of the night dragged heavily on; the fire had gone out, and the candle too—unnoticed, and Linton sat in the dark, brooding over his gloomy thoughts. At one moment he would start up, and wonder if the whole were not a terrible dream,—the nightmare of his own imagination; and it was only after an effort he remembered where he was, and with what object. He could not see his watch to tell the hour, but he knew it must be late, since the fire had long since died out, and the room was cold and chill. The agony of expectation became at last too great to endure; he felt his way to the door and passed out, and groping down the narrow stair, reached the outer door, and the road.

All was dark and lonely; not a sound of horseman or foot-traveller broke the dreary stillness of the hour, as Linton, urged on by an impulse he could not restrain, took his way towards the town. The distance was scarcely above a mile, but his progress was slow, for the road was wet and slippery, and the darkness very great. At last he reached the long straggling suburb, with its interminable streets of wretched hovels; but even here none were yet astir, and not a light was seen to glimmer. To this succeeded the narrow streets of the town itself,—where, at long intervals, a dusky yellow haze glimmered by way of lamplight. Stopping beneath one of these, Linton examined his watch, and found that it was near five o'clock. The lateness of the hour, and the unbroken stillness on every side, half induced him to believe that “all was over,” and Cashel's fate sealed for good or evil; but then Jones would have hastened back to bring the tidings! There could not be a doubt on this head. Urged onward to greater speed by emotions which now were scarcely supportable, he traversed street after street in frantic haste; when suddenly, on turning a corner, he came in front of a large building, from whose windows, dimmed by steam, a great blaze of light issued, and fell in long columns upon the “Square” in front. A dense, dark mass of human figures crowded the wide doorway, but they were silent and motionless all. Within the court, too, the stillness was unbroken; for as Linton listened he could now hear a cough, which resounded through the building.

“The jury are in deliberation,” thought he, and sat down upon the step of a door, his eyes riveted upon the court-house, and his heart beating so that he could count its strokes. Not far from him, as he sat there, scarcely a hundred paces off, within the building, there sat another man, waiting with a high throbbing heart for that word to be uttered which should either open the door of his prison, or close that of the grave upon him forever. The moments of expectancy were terrible to both! they were life-long agonies distilled to seconds; and he who could live through their pains must come forth from the trial a changed man forever after.