The foreman, a tall, fair, sensitive-looking man, hesitated for a moment, and his voice faltered, as he replied:
“We have.”
The order given to the prisoner and the jury to confront each other was quite superfluous as regarded Eudora, who had never taken her wild, affrighted gaze for an instant from the faces of those who held her fate in their hands.
But to those twelve men who had young sisters, wives, or daughters of their own, it was a severe ordeal to gaze upon the white, agonized face of that poor child whose doom they were about to pronounce.
The momentous question was then put by the clerk:
“Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of the crime for which she has been indicted?”
“Guilty.”
A low, wailing cry, like the last quivering note of a broken harp-string, burst from the pale lips of the prisoner, as she fell back in her seat and covered her face with her hands.
Malcolm, with a groan that seemed to burst his heart, leaned towards her in helpless, speechless anguish.
The low sound of sobbing was heard throughout the hall among the women present.