e strong
sensation roused him.

It was not very long, hardly more than a quarter of an hour, before
the knock which told that the jury had come to their decision fell as a
signal for silence on every ear. It is sublime--that sudden pause of a
great multitude which tells that one soul moves in them all. Deeper and
deeper the silence seemed to become, like the deepening night, while the
jurymen's names were called over, and the prisoner was made to hold up
her hand, and the jury were asked for their verdict.

"Guilty."

It was the verdict every one expected, but there was a sigh
of disappointment from some hearts that it was followed by no
recommendation to mercy. Still the sympathy of the court was not with
the prisoner. The unnaturalness of her crime stood out the more harshly
by the side of her hard immovability and obstinate silence. Even the
verdict, to distant eyes, had not appeared to move her, but those who
were near saw her trembling.

The stillness was less intense until the judge put on his black cap, and
the chaplain in his canonicals was observed behind him. Then it deepened
again, before the crier had had time to command silence. If any sound
were heard, it must have been the sound of beating hearts. The judge
spoke, "Hester Sorrel...."

The blood rushed to Hetty's face, and then fled back again as she
looked up at the judge and kept her wide-open eyes fixed on him, as if
fascinated by fear. Adam had not yet turned towards her, there was a
deep horror, like a great gulf, between them. But at the words "and
then to be hanged by the neck till you be dead," a piercing shriek rang
through the hall. It was Hetty's shriek. Adam started to his feet and
stretched out his arms towards her. But the arms could not reach her:
she had fallen down in a fainting-fit, and was carried out of court.

Chapter XLIV

Arthur's Return

When Arthur Donnithorne landed at Liverpool and read the letter from
his Aunt Lydia, briefly announcing his grand-father's death, his first
feeling was, "Poor Grandfather! I wish I could have got to him to be
with him when he died. He might have felt or wished something at the
last that I shall never know now. It was a lonely death."

It is impossible to say that his grief was deeper than that. Pity
and softened memory took place of the old antagonism, and in his busy
thoughts about the future, as the chaise carried him rapidly along
towards the home where he was now to be master,