To describe the triumph of O'Meara; the mingled pity and gladness that fills the heart of Constance; the rejoicings of Clifford Heath's friends, one and all; the misery and the shame that overwhelmed the Lamottes, would be useless.
The excitement of the audience, judge and jury, can be imagined better than described.
The tragic farce is at an end. The case is given to the jury. Without quitting their places, they return their verdict. Clifford Heath is not guilty; is honorably acquitted.
Exhausted by his recent effort, Evan Lamotte is carried from the court room, closely attended by his mother; is carried to the cell where lately Clifford Heath has dwelt a prisoner, while the latter is escorted in triumph, to O'Meara's, by all his rejoicing friends.
As the procession of conquerors moves away from the entrance, an officer approaches Jasper Lamotte.
"Mr. Lamotte, I am very sorry, sir, but you must consider yourself my prisoner."
Jasper Lamotte bows coldly, and signals the man that he will follow him.
The officer turns to Frank, but before he can open his lips, the miserable young man steps back, makes one quick movement; there is a flash, a loud report, and Frank Lamotte falls forward, to be caught in the arms of a by-stander.