he scaffold were
already erected, and the ghastly rope swinging from it.

Of course, the court was again crowded almost to suffocation. Mr.
Bakewell had spoken for more than two hours, and during the whole time
the interest had been intense, the excitement almost overwhelming.
Whenever he paused it seemed as though they could hear the wings of the
Angel of Death fluttering over them. Women sobbed aloud, strong men
breathed forth quivering sighs. Even the barristers who sat watching
the case, and who as a rule regarded murder cases with an air of
nonchalance, could not hide their emotion. Everything seemed to be
prejudged. No evidence had been adduced strong enough to save the
prisoner, and each juryman, who sat with eyes fixed upon the eloquent
counsel, looked as though there were only one thing to do, and that was
to pronounce the word "Guilty."

Paul had sat during the whole time of the delivery of this speech,
listening to every word with breathless eagerness. Never until that
day had he realised how near death was to him. Throughout the whole
trial he had never really believed that the jury could find him guilty.
Now, however, it seemed as though they could do nothing else. Never
had he felt his loneliness as he felt it then. The judge did not seem
to be a man, but merely a legal machine, uninfluenced by great
emotions, and considering his case only as a case. No one had been to
see him since the trial had recommenced under Judge Branscombe, save
the warders and the chaplain. In one way he was glad it was so, but in
another he longed for society, longed for comfort. Eagerly on each
morning of the trial had he looked around the court, dreading yet
hoping to see the face of Mary Bolitho, whom he still loved as a man
should love the woman he hopes to marry, even although he knew her to
be his sister. Each morning, too, he had longed to see the face of his
mother, although he hoped she would not be there. And while he still
declared that nothing could soften his heart against Judge Bolitho, he
felt as though the sight of his face would have helped him.

What were they doing? he wondered, the man whom he had lately learnt
was his father, and his mother, and his half-sister--no, he could not
call her sister even now, and he wondered why it was. When Mr.
Bakewell had finished his speech he heaved a sigh of relief. At least
the worst had been told. All that could be done to hang him had been
done--at le