force of caprice; others even hinted the baser motive, that they
didn't like "to hang a man who spent his income at home;" and others,
again, surmised that bribery might have had "something to do with it."
Few believed in Cashel's innocence of the crime; and even they said
nothing, for their convictions were more those of impulse than reason.

"Who could have thought it!" muttered Upton, as, with a knot of others,
he stood waiting for the crowd to pass out.

Frobisher shrugged his shoulders, and went on totting a line of figures
in his memorandum-book.

"Better off than I thought!" said he to himself; "seven to five taken
that he would not plead--eight to three that he would not call Linton.
Long odds upon time won: lost by verdict four hundred and fifty. Well,
it might have been worse; and I 've got a lesson--never to trust a
Jury."

"I say, Charley," whispered Upton, "what are you going to do?"

"How do you mean?"

"Will you go up and speak to him?" said he, with a motion of his head
towards the dock.

Frobisher's sallow cheek grew scarlet. Lost and dead to every sense of
honorable feeling for many a day, the well had not altogether dried up,
and it was with a look of cutting insolence he said,--

"No, sir; if I did not stand by him before, I 'll not be the hound to
crawl to his feet now."

"By Jove! I don't see the thing in that light. He's all right now, and
there 's no reason why we should n't know him as we used to do."

"Are you so certain that he will know _you?_" was Fro-bisher's sharp
reply as he turned away.

The vast moving throng pressed forward, and now all were speedily
commingled,--spectators, lawyers, jurors, witnesses. The spectacle
was over, and the empty court stood silent and noiseless, where a few
moments back human hopes and passions had surged like the waves of a
sea.

The great space in front of the court-house, filled for a few moments
by the departing crowd, grew speedily silent and empty,--for day had not
yet broken, and all were hastening homeward to seek repose. One figure
alone was seen to stand in that spot, and then move slowly, and to all
seeming irresolutely, onward. It was Cashel himself, who, undecided
whither to turn, walked listlessly and carelessly on.

As he turned a corner of a street, a jaunting-car, around which some
travellers stood, stopped the way, and he heard the words of the driver.

"There's another place to spare."

"Where for?" asked Cashel.

"Lim