"
With these concluding remarks his honour sips his mixture, and sits
down.
Gentlemen of the jury rise from their seats, and form into a circle;
Mr. Felsh coolly turns over the leaves of the statutes; the audience
mutter to themselves; the prisoner stares vacantly over the scene,
as if heedless of the issue.
"Guilty! it's that we've made it; and the divil a thing else we
could make out of it," exclaims Terrance M'Quade, as they, after the
mature length of two minutes' consultation, turn and face his
honour. They pause for a reply.
"Stand up, prisoner!"
"Hats off during the sentence!" rejoins a constable.
"Guilty." His honour rises to his feet with ponderous dignity to
pronounce the awful sentence. "Gentlemen, I must needs compliment
your verdict; you could have come to no other." His honour bows
gracefully to the jury, reminds gentlemen present of the solemn
occasion, and will hear what the prisoner has to say for himself.
An angry frown pervades the prisoner's face. He has nothing to say.
Burning tears course down his cheeks; but they are not tears of
contrition,--Oh, no! he has no such tears to shed. Firmly and
resolutely he says, "Guilty! guilty! yes, I am guilty-guilty by the
guilty laws of a guilty land. You are powerful-I am weak; you have
might-I have right. Mine is not a chosen part. Guilty on earth, my
soul will be innocent in heaven; and before a just judge will my
cause be proclaimed, before a holy tribunal my verdict received, and
by angels my soul be enrolled among the righteous.
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