Half an hour passed; three-quarters. The tension became unbearable. She heard a man laugh in the corridor. Behind her a couple of barristers were telling a funny story under their breath. In the gallery a woman dropped her fan; and as she happened to be good-looking, there was quite a little commotion to recover it. And her lover's honour, his freedom, his very life, lay in the balance. She swept the Court fearlessly with her eyes; half of these people had come out of curiosity, as they would go to the theatre. Not one of them cared.
She knew what it was to hate, for she hated them now—heartless and selfish. An hour passed. A minute later there was a sudden commotion. People began to flock into the Court. The door on which Ruby's eyes had been fixed opened, and the jury slowly returned to their places. The usher shouted for order, and the Judge resumed his seat.
Silence came. A pin could have been heard fall. Then the Judge leaned slightly forward towards the Foreman of the Jury. The little formalities that took place now seemed needlessly cruel. Ruby scarcely heard what was said—she was waiting for one of two words: Guilty, or Not Guilty!
It seemed a long pause before the Foreman answered the final question addressed to him by the Judge. The answer was what every one expected:
"We find the prisoner guilty, my Lord."
Ruby Strode staggered to her feet; but the solicitors who had been watching her seized her arm and dragged her down. The Judge passed sentence: Five years' penal servitude.
The silence was broken, and straightway the Judge rose. A few people were surprised at the severity; others said that Dale thoroughly deserved it. For the public the excitement was over, the show was finished, and in the hurry to get outside into the fresh air, no one noticed Ruby Strode. She had risen to her feet and stretched out her arms imploringly to the retreating figure of the Judge.
"My Lord, I did it! I swear to God I did it!" Then she swayed, lost consciousness, would have fallen had not Mr. Marshall stepped forward and caught her.
"Poor girl!" he whispered, as with the assistance of one of the ushers he carried her off to another room. "Poor girl! how she must have loved him. By gad! they say women haven't as much pluck as men!"
* * * * *