f the common order, with little or no knowledge of the
law, with minds unfitted to grasp the inwardness of the evidence which
had been given, should have to pronounce the verdict of life or death
upon the young man who stood in the dock. Under ordinary circumstances
Paul's voice, Paul's opinion, would have weighed more than all theirs
put together. Yet such was the case. They held in their hands the
issues of life and death. What they had decided upon would be final.

"Gentlemen, are you agreed as to your verdict?" And as the listeners
heard the question asked it seemed as though their heart-strings were
strained, and as though they could not bear to hear the answer.

"Yes."

"Do you find the prisoner guilty, or not guilty?"

"Guilty!"

It seemed like a knell of doom in the court. The pent-up feelings of
the crowded spectators burst forth in a mighty sob. More than one
gasped, "No, no." The utmost confusion prevailed, and more than one
had to be carried out of the court, overcome by emotion. The jurymen
sat each in his place pale and evidently moved. The verdict had been
according to the best of their abilities. Perhaps had the judge's
summing up been different they would have given the alternative
finding, but the feeling was that the judge, who was far wiser than
they, believed in the prisoner's guilt, and they, carried away by his
weight and authority, and by his cold, yet telling, words, pronounced
the verdict of "Guilty."

Paul, when he heard the verdict, reeled for a moment, and felt as
though his limbs were giving way under him; but only for a moment. His
resolution and his pride, which had borne him through the rest of the
trial, should bear him through this. He would not show any weakness.
His face was blanched, and his lips were white, but his eyes still
burned with a steady light, and in a few seconds he again stood erect
and calm, and looked at the judge's face.

The judge communicated for a moment with the Clerk of Arraigns, who
went through the usual formula, and then the clerk, addressing the
prisoner in the dock, said to him:

"Paul Stepaside, you have been found guilty of the wilful murder of
Edward Wilson. Have you anything to say why sentence of death should
not be passed upon you in due form?"

Paul hesitated a moment as if undecided whether he should
speak--everything seemed to be pure mockery now. The end of all things
had come. He knew that when a jury pronounced a verdi