Mitford was there. The sanction of the church was about to seal the happiness of our hero for ever, when suddenly three officers interrupted the bridal ceremonies, and seizing Mitford on a warrant for forgery, conducted him to prison.
To describe the distress of the bride—the confusion of the guests—would be impossible. We leave it to the imagination of our readers.
The process of the law was rapid. The day of trial arrived. Mitford pleaded not guilty.
All that the most able counsel could effect, was done for him. The witnesses were brow-beaten; the jury harangued; but he was found guilty.
The judge passed sentence of death.
'La!' said Mrs. Minikin, the haberdasher's wife, 'to-morrow is the day when that there gen'leman is to be hung for forgery. Let's go see him.'
'My dear,' said Mr. Minikin, 'you know I never likes them there sort of things. If it was a reg'lar mill, then I might go; but I never likes to see no one tucked up.'
'Oh, but, my dear,' said the gentle Mrs. Minikin, 'it is not entertaining, I grant, to see them there riff-raffs which is usually hung; but this is a gen'leman. Only consider,' said she, in her most endearing manner, 'how delightful to see one of them there 'igh-flyers hung!' And the pliant Mr. Minikin consented.