But the ambassador of the majestic law was quite unhurried. “I have a few words to say to the occupants of this courtroom. If at the conclusion of the verdict there is a demonstration of any kind whatsoever, the offenders will be brought before me and promptly dealt with as being in contempt of court. Officers, hold the doors.”
And through another door—the little one behind the seat of justice—twelve tired men were filing, gaunt, solemn eyed, awkward—the farmers, merchants, and salesmen who held in their awkward hands the terrible power of life and death. The red-headed girl clutched the solid, tweed-covered arm beside her as though she were drowning.
There they stood in a neat semicircle under the merciless glare of the lights, their upturned faces white and spent.
“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed on a verdict?”
A deep-voiced chorus answered solemnly, “We have.”
“Prisoner, look upon the jury. Jury, look upon the prisoners.”
Unflinching and inscrutable, the white faces obeyed the grave voice.
“Foreman, how do you find as to Stephen Bellamy, guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty.”
A tremor went through the court and was stilled.