A juror at Terrance M'Quade's right, touches that gentleman on the shoulder: he had just cooled away into a nice sleep: "I think so, too, yer 'oner," rejoins Terrance, in half bewilderment, starting nervously and rubbing his eyes.
A few mumbled words from his honour serve as a charge to the jury. They know the law, and have the evidence before them. "I see not, gentlemen, how you can render a verdict other than guilty; but that, let me here say, I shall leave to your more mature deliberation." With these concluding remarks his honour sips his mixture, and sits down.
Gentlemen of the jury rise from their seats, and form into a circle; Mr. Felsh coolly turns over the leaves of the statutes; the audience mutter to themselves; the prisoner stares vacantly over the scene, as if heedless of the issue.
"Guilty! it's that we've made it; and the divil a thing else we could make out of it," exclaims Terrance M'Quade, as they, after the mature length of two minutes' consultation, turn and face his honour. They pause for a reply.
"Stand up, prisoner!"
"Hats off during the sentence!" rejoins a constable.
"Guilty." His honour rises to his feet with ponderous dignity to pronounce the awful sentence. "Gentlemen, I must needs compliment your verdict; you could have come to no other." His honour bows gracefully to the jury, reminds gentlemen present of the solemn occasion, and will hear what the prisoner has to say for himself.
An angry frown pervades the prisoner's face. He has nothing to say. Burning tears course down his cheeks; but they are not tears of contrition,—Oh, no! he has no such tears to shed. Firmly and resolutely he says, "Guilty! guilty! yes, I am guilty-guilty by the guilty laws of a guilty land. You are powerful-I am weak; you have might-I have right. Mine is not a chosen part. Guilty on earth, my soul will be innocent in heaven; and before a just judge will my cause be proclaimed, before a holy tribunal my verdict received, and by angels my soul be enrolled among the righteous. Your earthly law seals my lips; your black judgment-enough to make heaven frown and earth tremble, fearing justice-crushes the man; but you cannot judge the spirit. In fear and trembling your wrongs will travel broken paths-give no man rest. I am guilty with you; I am innocent in heaven. He who judgeth all things right, receives the innocent soul into his bosom; and He will offer repentance to him who takes the innocent life." He pauses, as his eye, with intense stare, rests upon his honour.
"You are through?" enquires his honour, raising his eyebrows.
"In this court of justice," firmly replies the prisoner.