The merciless gaze of those hundreds of eager eyes fell, not upon a bold woman—a hardened criminal—but upon a young, slight, delicate girl, dressed in black and deeply veiled, who advanced with trembling steps and downcast eyes.
Behind her walked Malcolm Montrose, whose haggard countenance betrayed the agony of anxiety he suffered on her account.
She was led up the length of the hall and let into the dock, where a seat had been placed for her by some kind hand.
At a sign from the sheriff, the wardress entered and took a place by her side.
Malcolm Montrose posted himself as near the dock as he could possibly get.
As Eudora dropped into her seat, her head sank upon her breast, her hands fell upon her lap, and her whole form collapsed and shrank beneath the oppressive gaze of that large assembly.
Yet, if the poor girl could have looked up, she would have seen more than one pair of eyes regarding her with an expression kinder than mere curiosity; even those of the venerable judge were bent upon her in deep compassion.
But she dared not lift her head.
She heard a murmur of voices, a stir of hands, a rustle of papers, and then the voice of the clerk of arraigns, calling out:
“Eudora Leaton!”