nk into a corner, and waited until the Court rose
that day. In the morning she came again, resisting all efforts made by
some kindly countrywomen to take her away to their homes. She did not
speak, but struggled out of their hands with so wild a look in her great
black eyes that they shrank back from her aghast, whispering to each
other that she was purely "not right in the head," and perhaps they had
better leave her alone. They made her sit beside them, and tried to
persuade her to share the food that they had brought to eat in the
middle of the day; but they did not succeed in their kindly efforts. The
child seemed stupefied; she had a blind look, and did not respond when
spoken to.

She heard the foreman declare the finding of the jury--"Guilty, my
lord," but she hardly knew at that moment what was meant. Then came the
usual question. Had the prisoner anything to say? Was there any defence
which even now he desired to urge, any plea in mitigation of his crime?

Andrew Westwood raised his head. He had a sullen, defiant countenance;
his wild dark eyes, the shock of black hair tumbled across his lowering
brows, his rugged features, had told against him in popular estimation
and given him a ruffianly aspect in the eyes of the crowd; and yet, when
he stood up, and with a sudden rough gesture tossed the hair back from
his brows, and faced the judge with a look of unflinching resolution, it
was felt that the man possessed a rude dignity which compelled something
very like admiration. Courage always commands respect, and, whatever his
faults, his vices, his crimes might be, Andrew Westwood was a courageous
man. He gripped the rail of the dock before him with both hands, and
gave a quick look round the court before he spoke. His face was a little
paler than usual, but his strong, hard voice did not falter.

"I have only to say what I said before. I take God to witness that I am
innocent of this murder, and I pray that He'll punish the man that did
kill Mr. Vane and left me to bear the burden of his crime! That's all I
have to say, my lord. You may hang me if you like--I swear that I never
killed him; and I curse the hand that did!"

The hard, defiant tone of his speech effectually dissipated the
momentary sympathy felt for him by his audience. The judge sternly cut
him short, and said a few solemn words on the heinousness of his offence
and the impenitence which he had evinced. Then came the tragic
conclusion of the scene