Ryder. My child! I have none.
Prisoner. In January, 1743, you left a baby at Biggleswade, with a woman called Church,—did you not?
Ryder (panting). Of course I did. It was my sister's.
Prisoner. Do you mean to call God to witness that child was not your's?
Ryder hesitated.
Prisoner. Will you swear Mrs. Church did not see you suckle that child in secret, and weep over it?
At this question the perspiration stood visible on Ryder's brow, her cheeks were ghastly, and her black eyes roved like some wild animal's round the court. She saw her own danger, and had no means of measuring her inquisitor's information.
"My lord, have pity on me. I was betrayed, abandoned. Why am I so tormented? I have not committed murder." So, catlike, she squealed and scratched at once.
Prisoner. What! to swear away an innocent life, is not that murder?
Judge. Prisoner, we make allowances for your sex, and your peril, but you must not remark on the evidence at present. Examine as severely as you will, but abstain from comment till you address the jury on your defence.