ere quoted,
as implying a condemnation on Cashel's wasteful extravagance, at a time
when the poor around were "perishing of hunger." Even to Linton, whose
mind was but too conversant with the sad truths of the story, these
narratives assumed the strongest form of consistency and likelihood;
and he saw how effectually circumstantial evidence can convict a man in
public estimation, long before a jury are sworn to try him.

Crimes of this nature, now, had not been unfrequent in that district;
and the country people felt a species of savage vengeance in urging
their accusations against a "gentleman," who had not what they reckoned
as the extenuating circumstances to diminish or explain away his guilt.

"He was n't turned out of his little place to die on the roadside,"
muttered one. "He wasn't threatened, like poor Tom Keane, to be
'starminated,'" cried another.

"And who is Tom Keane?" asked Linton.

"The gatekeeper up at the big house yonder, sir; one that's lived man
and boy nigh fifty years there; and Mr. Cashel swore he 'd root him out,
for all that!"

"Ay!" chimed in another, in a moralizing whine, "an' see where he is
himself, now!"

"I wondher now if they'd hang him, sir?" asked one.

"Why not," asked Linton, "if he should be found guilty?"

"They say, sir, the gentlemen can always pay for another man to
be hanged instead of them. Musha, maybe 'tis n't true," added he,
diffidently, as he saw the smile on Linton's face.

"I think you 'll find that the right man will suffer in this case," said
Linton; and a gleam of malignant passion shot from his dark eyes as he
spoke.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE TRIAL--THE PROSECUTION

As I listened I thought myself guilty.

--Warren Hastings.

For several days before that appointed for the trial of Roland Cashel,
the assize town was crowded with visitors from every part of the island.
Not a house, not a room was unoccupied, so intense was the interest to
witness a cause into which so many elements of exciting story entered.
His great wealth, his boundless extravagance, the singular character
of his early life, gave rise to a hundred curious anecdotes, which the
press circulated with a most unscrupulous freedom.

Nor did public curiosity stop at the walls of the prison; for every
detail of his life, since the day of his committal, was carefully
recorded by the papers. The unbroken solitude in which he lived; the
apparent calm collectedness in which he awaite