“We say, Not Guilty, my Lord,” said the foreman.
There was a solemn pause followed the words, and then a low murmur arose, which gradually swelled till it burst forth into a very clamor, that only the grave rebuke of the Bench reduced to the wonted decorum of a court of justice.
“I am never disposed, gentlemen of the jury, to infringe upon the sacred prerogative which environs your office. You are responsible to God and your own consciences for the words you have uttered here, this day; but my duty requires that I should be satisfied that you have come to your conclusion by a due understanding of the facts laid before you in evidence, by just and natural inferences from those facts, and by weighing well and dispassionately all that you have heard here, to the utter exclusion of anything you may have listened to outside of this court. Is your verdict in accordance with these conditions?”
“So far, my Lord, as the mysterious circumstances of this crime admit, I believe it is. We say 'Not Guilty,' from a firm conviction on our minds that we are saying the truth.”
“Enough,” said the judge. “Clerk, record the verdict.” Then turning to the dock, towards which every eye was now bent, he continued: “Roland Cashel, a jury of your countrymen, solemnly sworn to try you on the charge of murder, have this day pronounced you 'Not Guilty.' You go, therefore, free from this dock, to resume that station you occupied in society, without stain upon your character or blemish upon your fame. The sworn verdict we have recorded obliterates the accusation. But, for the sake of justice, for the interests of the glorious prerogative we possess in trial by jury, for the sacred cause of truth itself, I implore you, before quitting this court, to unravel the thread of this dark mystery, so far as in you lies,—to fill up those blanks in the narrative you have already given us,—to confirm, to the extent in your power, the justice of that sentence by which you are restored once more to the society of your friends and family. This, I say, is now your duty; and the example you will give, in performing it, will reflect credit upon yourself, and do service to the cause of truth, when you and I and those around us shall be no more.”
It was with stronger show of emotion than Cashel had yet displayed that he leaned over the dock and said,—
“My Lord, when life, and something more than life, were in peril, I deemed it right to reserve certain details from the notoriety of this court. I did so, not to involve any other in the suspicion of this guilt, whose author I know not. I did not do so from any caprice, still less from that misanthropic affectation the counsel was ungenerous enough to ascribe to me. I believe that I had good and sufficient reasons for the course I adopted. I still think I have such. As to the rest, the discovery of this guilt is now become the duty of my life,—I owe it to those whose words have set me free, and I pledge myself to the duty.”
The Bench now conferred with the Crown lawyers as to the proceedings necessary for the discharge of the prisoner; and already the crowds, wearied and exhausted, began to withdraw. The interest of the scene was over; and in the various expressions of those that passed might be read the feelings with which they regarded the result. Many reprobated the verdict as against law and all the facts; some attributed the “finding” to the force of caprice; others even hinted the baser motive, that they didn't like “to hang a man who spent his income at home;” and others, again, surmised that bribery might have had “something to do with it.” Few believed in Cashel's innocence of the crime; and even they said nothing, for their convictions were more those of impulse than reason.
“Who could have thought it!” muttered Upton, as, with a knot of others, he stood waiting for the crowd to pass out.
Frobisher shrugged his shoulders, and went on totting a line of figures in his memorandum-book.