had the desired effect--the speech was arrested before its
conclusion, and the spectators, now more than ever assured of the
partial sanity of the witness, gave up any doubts which had previously
began to grow in behalf of the accused. A second look of the landlord
was emphatic enough for the purpose of completely silencing her farther
evidence. She read in its fearful expression, as plainly as if spoken in
words--"The next syllable you utter is fatal to your uncle--your father.
Now speak, Lucy, if you can."

For a single moment she was dumb and stationary--her eye turned from her
uncle to the prisoner. Horror, and the agonies natural to the strife in
her bosom, were in its wild expression, and, with a single cry of "I can
not--I must not save him!" from her pallid lips, she sunk down senseless
upon the floor, and was borne out by several of the more sympathizing
spectators.

There was nothing now to delay the action of the court. The counsel had
closed with the argument, and the judge proceeded in his charge to the
jury. His remarks were rather favorable than otherwise to the prisoner.
He dwelt upon his youth--his manliness--the seeming excellence of his
education, and the propriety which had marked his whole behavior on
trial. These he spoke of as considerations which must, of course, make
the duty, which they had to perform, more severely painful to all. But
they could not do away with the strong and tenacious combination of
circumstances against him. These were all closely knit, and all tended
strongly to the conviction of the guilt of the accused. Still they were
circumstantial; and the doubts of the jury were, of course, so many
arguments on the side of mercy. He concluded.

But the jury had no doubts. How should they doubt? They deliberated,
indeed, for form's sake, but not long. In a little while they returned
to their place, and the verdict was read by the clerk.

"Guilty."

"Guilty," responded the prisoner, and for a moment his head dropped upon
his clasped hands, and his frame shivered as with an ague.

"Guilty--guilty--Oh, my father--Edith--Edith--have I lived for this?"

There was no other sign of human weakness. He arose with composure, and
followed, with firm step, the officer to his dungeon. His only thought
was of the sorrows and the shame of others--of those of whom he had been
the passion and the pride--of that father's memory and name, of whom he
had been the cherished hope--of that maiden of