The prisoner was dumb.
“Isn’t John Richling the only name you have ever gone by?” said his new friend: but the prisoner silently blushed to the roots of his hair and remained motionless.
“I think I shall have to send you to prison,” said the recorder, preparing to write. A low groan was the prisoner’s only response.
“May it please your honor,” began the lawyer, taking a step forward; but the recorder waved his pen impatiently.
“Why, the more is said the worse his case gets; he’s guilty of the offence charged, by his own confession.”
“I am guilty and not guilty,” said the prisoner slowly. “I never intended to be a criminal. I intended to be a good and useful member of society; but I’ve somehow got under its wheels. I’ve missed the whole secret of living.” He dropped his face into his hands. “O Mary, Mary! why are you my wife?” He beckoned to his counsel. “Come here; come here.” His manner was wild and nervous. “I want you—I want you to go to Prieur street, to my wife. You know—you know the place, don’t you? Prieur street. Ask for Mrs. Riley”—
“Richling,” said the lawyer.
“No, no! you ask for Mrs. Riley? Ask her—ask her—oh! where are my senses gone? Ask”—
“May it please the court,” said the lawyer, turning once more to the magistrate and drawing a limp handkerchief from the skirt of his dingy alpaca, with a reviving confidence, “I ask that the accused be discharged; he’s evidently insane.”
The prisoner looked rapidly from counsel to magistrate, and back again, saying, in a low voice, “Oh, no! not that! Oh, no! not that! not that!”