“Better off than I thought!” said he to himself; “seven to five taken that he would not plead—eight to three that he would not call Linton. Long odds upon time won: lost by verdict four hundred and fifty. Well, it might have been worse; and I 've got a lesson—never to trust a Jury.”
“I say, Charley,” whispered Upton, “what are you going to do?”
“How do you mean?”
“Will you go up and speak to him?” said he, with a motion of his head towards the dock.
Frobisher's sallow cheek grew scarlet. Lost and dead to every sense of honorable feeling for many a day, the well had not altogether dried up, and it was with a look of cutting insolence he said,—
“No, sir; if I did not stand by him before, I 'll not be the hound to crawl to his feet now.”
“By Jove! I don't see the thing in that light. He's all right now, and there 's no reason why we should n't know him as we used to do.”
“Are you so certain that he will know you?” was Fro-bisher's sharp reply as he turned away.
The vast moving throng pressed forward, and now all were speedily commingled,—spectators, lawyers, jurors, witnesses. The spectacle was over, and the empty court stood silent and noiseless, where a few moments back human hopes and passions had surged like the waves of a sea.
The great space in front of the court-house, filled for a few moments by the departing crowd, grew speedily silent and empty,—for day had not yet broken, and all were hastening homeward to seek repose. One figure alone was seen to stand in that spot, and then move slowly, and to all seeming irresolutely, onward. It was Cashel himself, who, undecided whither to turn, walked listlessly and carelessly on.