But, when they do—when the drooping, shrinking form is at length in the witness-box; her eyes never raised, her lovely face bent in timid dread—then a murmur arises, and shakes the court to its foundation. The judge feels for his glasses—rarely used—and puts them across his nose, and gazes at her. A fair girl, attired in the simple, modest garb peculiar to the sect called Quakers, not more modest than the lovely and gentle face. She does not take the oath, only the affirmation peculiar to her people.
"What is your name?" commenced the prisoner's counsel.
That she spoke words in reply, was evident, by the moving of her lips: but they could not be heard.
"You must speak up," interposed the judge, in tones of kindness.
A deep struggle for breath, an effort of which even those around could see the pain, and the answer came. "They call me Anna. I am the daughter of Samuel Lynn."
"Where do your live?"
"I live with my father and Patience, in the London Road."
"What do you know of the prisoner at the bar?"
A pause. She probably did not understand the sort of answer required. One came that was unexpected.
"I know him to be innocent of the crime of which he is accused."