"The first witness I shall call," said the learned counsel, "is one who will tell you where Mr. Lennox spent his time on the night of the murder; will tell you how he relieved the poor woman; will, in short, give such evidence as shall entirely free him of the most foul charge. Call Miss Hyacinth Vaughan."
At the mention of the name the prisoner started and his face flushed crimson.
"Why did she come?" some one near heard him murmur. "I would have died for her."
Then, amid profound and breathless silence, there entered the witness-box a graceful girlish figure, on which all eyes were immediately bent. She raised her veil, and a thrill of admiration went through that thronged assembly as the beautiful, colorless face, so lovely, so pure, so full of earnest purpose, was turned to the judge. She did not seem to notice the hundreds of admiring, wondering eyes—it was as though she stood before the judge alone.
"Do not speak, Hyacinth," said the prisoner, vehemently; and in a low voice he added: "I can bear it all—do not speak."
"Silence!" spoke the judge, sternly. "This is a court of justice; we must have no suppression of the truth."
"Your name is Hyacinth Vaughan?" was the first question asked.
"My name is Hyacinth Vaughan," was the reply; and the voice that spoke was so sweet, so sad, so musical, that people bent forward to listen more eagerly. Sergeant Burton looked at the beautiful, pallid, high-bred face.
"You were in the company of the accused on the night of Wednesday, the 12th of June?"
"Yes," she said.