ring the recital of the defendant's story,
which has appeared to you to be in the slightest manner prejudiced one
way or another, I charge you to strike such mistaken impressions from
your minds.

"I have tried honestly to wash the slate of my mind clean to take down
faithfully the aspects of this case which for two weeks has occupied
this jury.

"If you believe the defendant guilty of the heinous crime in question,
do not falter in your use of the power with which the law has vested
you.

"If, on the other hand and to the best of your judgment, there has been
in the defendant's life extenuating circumstances, er--a limitation
of environment, home influence, close not the avenues of your fair
judgment.

"Did this man in the kind of er--a--frenzy he describes and to which
witnesses agree he was subject, deliberately strain back the Ross
woman's head until the nail penetrated?

"If so, remember the law takes knowledge only of self-defense.

"On the other hand, ask of yourselves well, did the defendant, in the
frenzy which he claims had hold of him when he committed this unusual
crime, know that the nail was there?

"_Would Winnie Ross have met her death if the nail had not been there?_

"Gentlemen, in the name of the law, solemnly and with a fear of God in
your hearts, I charge you."

It was a quick verdict. Three hours and forty minutes.

"Not guilty."

In the front row there, with the titillating folderols on her bonnet and
her hand at her throat as if she would tear it open for the mystery of
the pain of the heartbeat in it, Sara Turkletaub heard, and, hearing,
swooned into the pit of her pain and her joy.

Her son, with brackets of fatigue out about his mouth, was standing over
her when she opened her eyes, the look of crucifixion close to the front
of them.

"Mother," he said, pressing her head close to his robes of state and
holding a throat-straining quiver under his voice, "I--I shouldn't have
let you stay. It was too--much for you."

It took her a moment for the mist to clear.

"I--Son--did somebody strike? Hit? Strange. I--I must have been hurt.
Son, am I bleeding?" And looked down, clasping her hand to the bosom of
her decent black-silk basque.

"Son, I--It was a good verdict, not? I--couldn't have stood it--if--if
it wasn't. I--Something--It was good, not?"

"Yes, mother, yes."

"Don't--don't let that boy get away, son. I think--those tempers--I can
help--him. You see, I know--how to h