at the first passion of fear or anger has left it; and now that
they have the murderer in their clutch, some begin almost to pity him,
and others to believe, or at least to hope, that he may be innocent. As
yet they have said not a word of the crime of which they accuse him; but
let him try to master the expression of his voice and his eyes as he
may, guilt is in those stealthy glances--guilt is in those reckless
tones. And why does he seek to hide his right hand in his bosom? And
whatever he may affect to say--they ask him not--most certainly that
stain on his shirt-collar is blood. But now they are at Moorside.

There is still a great crowd all round about the house--in the
garden--and at the door--and a troubled cry announces that the criminal
has been taken, and is close at hand. His father meets him at the gate;
and, kneeling down, holds up his clasped hands, and says, "My son, if
thou art guilty, confess, and die." The criminal angrily waves his
father aside, and walks towards the door. "Fools! fools! what mean ye by
this? What crime has been committed? And how dare ye to think me the
criminal? Am I like a murderer?"--"We never spoke to him of the
murder--we never spoke to him of the murder!" cried one of the men who
now held him by the arm; and all assembled then exclaimed, "Guilty,
guilty--that one word will hang him! O, pity, pity, for his father and
poor sister--this will break their hearts!" Appalled, yet firm of foot,
the prisoner forced his way into the house; and turning, in his
confusion, into the chamber on the left, there he beheld the corpse of
the murdered on the bed--for the sheet had been removed--as yet not laid
out, and disfigured and deformed just as she had been found on the moor,
in the same misshapen heap of death! One long insane glare--one shriek,
as if all his heartstrings at once had burst--and then down fell the
strong man on the floor like lead. One trial was past which no human
hardihood could endure--another, and yet another, awaits him; but them
he will bear as the guilty brave have often borne them, and the most
searching eye shall not see him quail at the bar or on the scaffold.

They lifted the stricken wretch from the floor, placed him in a chair,
and held him upright, till he should revive from the fit. And he soon
did revive; for health flowed in all his veins, and he had the strength
of a giant. But when his senses returned, there was none to pity him;
for the shock had given a