It got dark. I sat still in the dark and waited. The stupor bound my faculties like a frost.
It had been dark many hours when the door of the pen swung open. The same attendant again said, “Come.”
The court-room was lighted by a few feeble gas jets. The judge sat on the bench. The district-attorney was laughing and chatting with him. Epstein said, “For God’s sake, summon all your strength. They have agreed.”
The jurymen entered in single file, took their places, settled themselves in their chairs. The judge and the prosecutor suspended their pleasantries. The clerk cleared his throat. There was a second of dead silence. Then, “Prisoner, stand up,” called the clerk.
I stood up.
“Prisoner, look you upon the jury. Jury, look you upon the prisoner,” the clerk cried, machine-like.
In the murky light of the gas I could have gathered nothing from the faces of the jurymen, even had I been concerned to do so.
“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?” the metallic voice of the clerk rang out.
The foreman rose. “We have,” he answered.
“How say you, do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of the offense for which he stands indicted?”