At twelve o'clock the next day—during a recess of the court—a loud knock was heard upon the door which led to the jury-room. Instantly every voice was hushed and every eye was strained to watch the countenances of these arbiters of fate who slowly entered and took their seats.
Bucholz was laughing gayly with some acquaintances, but he became instantly serious—the smile died away from his lips, and he anxiously awaited the announcement that was to convey to him the blessing of life or the doom of death.
Slowly the jurors arose and faced the court.
"Gentlemen of the jury, have you determined upon your verdict?"
Breathlessly they all listened.
"We have."
These words fell like a thunderbolt upon the assembly. The prisoner's face grew pale; he grasped the railing in front of him and gazed wistfully at the jurors who stood beside him.
"Prisoner at the bar, stand up," said the clerk; and Bucholz arose immediately, turning his pallid face toward the jury-box.
The gray-haired foreman, whose elbow almost touched the prisoner, looked at him with a glance in which was depicted a sympathy, which, while it was heartfelt and sincere, was not of sufficient force to outweigh a conscientious discharge of duty.
"Gentlemen of the jury, how say you? Is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?"