University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

The Orphan.

It is to be presumed that Timms found the means to communicate
to Williams the rejection of the latter's offer, before the
court met next morning. It is certain that the counsel associated
with the Attorney-General manifested unusual zeal in the performance
of duties that most men would have found unpleasant,
if not painful, and that he was captious, short, and ill-natured.
Just as Mary Monson came within the bar, a letter was put into
the hands of Dunscomb, who quietly broke the seal, and read it
twice, as the observant Timms fancied; then put it in his pocket,
with a mien so undisturbed that no mere looker-on would have
suspected its importance. The letter was from Millington, and
it announced a general want of success in his mission. The
whereabouts of M. de Larocheforte could not be ascertained; and
those who knew anything about his movements, were of opinion
that he was travelling in the West, accompanied by his fair, accomplished,
and affluent young consort. None of those who
would naturally have heard of such an event, had it occurred,
could say there had ever been a separation between the French
husband and the American wife. Millington, himself, had never
seen his kinswoman, there being a coolness of long standing between
the two branches of the family, and could give little or no
information on the subject. In a word, he could discover nothing

to enable him to carry out the clue obtained in the rumour; while,
on the other hand, he found a certain set, who occupied themselves
a good deal with intelligence of that sort, were greatly disposed
to believe the report, set on foot by herself, that Mary
Monson was a stool-pigeon of a gang of marauders, and doubtless
guilty of everything of which she had been accused. Millington
would remain in town, however, another day, and endeavour to
push his inquiries to some useful result. Cool, clear-headed, and
totally without romance, Dunscomb knew that a better agent
than his young friend could not be employed, and was fain to
wait patiently for the discoveries he might eventually succeed in
making. In the mean time the trial proceeded.

“Mr. Clerk,” said his honour, “let the jury be called.”

This was done, and Mary Monson's lips moved, while a lurking
smile lighted her countenance, as her eyes met the sympathy
that was expressed in the countenances of several of the grave
men who had been drawn as arbiters, in her case, between life
and death. To her it was apparent that her sex, her youth, perhaps
her air and beauty, stood her friends, and that she might
largely count on the compassion of that small but important body
of men. One of her calculations had succeeded to the letter.
The tale of her being a stool-pigeon had been very actively circulated,
with certain additions and embellishments that it was
very easy to disprove; and another set of agents had been hard
at work, all the morning, in brushing away such of the collateral
circumstances as had, at first, been produced to confirm the main
story, and which, in now being pulled to pieces as of no account,
did not fail to cast a shade of the darkest doubt over the whole
rumour. All this Mary Monson probably understood, and understanding,
enjoyed; a vein of wild wilfulness certainly running
through her character, leading in more directions than one.

“I hope there will be no delay on account of witnesses,” observed
the judge. “Time is very precious.”

“We are armed at all points, your honour, and intend to bring
the matter to an early conclusion,” answered Williams, casting
one of those glances at the prisoner which had obtained for him
the merited sobriquet of “saucy.” “Crier, call Samuel Burton.”

Timms fairly started. This was breaking ground in a new
spot, and was producing testimony from a source that he much
dreaded. The Burtons had been the nearest neighbours of the
Goodwins, and were so nearly on a social level with them, as to
live in close and constant communication. These Burtons consisted
of the man, his wife, and three maiden sisters. At one
time, the last had conversed much on the subject of the murders;
but, to Timms' great discontent, they had been quite dumb of
late. This had prevented his putting in practice a method of
anticipating testimony, that is much in vogue, and which he had
deliberately attempted with these sometime voluble females. As
the reader may not be fully initiated in the mysteries of that
sacred and all-important master of the social relations, the law,
we shall set forth the manner in which justice is often bolstered,
when its interests are cared for by practitioners of the Timms'
and Williams' school.

No sooner is it ascertained that a particular individual has a
knowledge of an awkward fact, than these worthies of the bar set
to work to extract the dangerous information from him. This is
commonly attempted, and often effected, by inducing the witness
to relate what he knows, and by leading him on to make statements
that, on being sworn to in court, will either altogether invalidate
his testimony, or throw so much doubt on it as to leave
it of very little value. As the agents employed to attain this
end are not very scrupulous, there is great danger that their imaginations
may supply the defects in the statements, and substitute
words and thoughts that the party never uttered. It is so easy
to mistake another's meaning, with even the best intentions, that

we are not to be surprised if this should seriously happen when
the disposition is to mislead. With the parties to suits, this artifice
is often quite successful, admissions being obtained, or supposed
to be obtained, that they never, for an instant, intended to
make. In the states where speculation has cornered men, and
left them loaded with debt, these devices of the eaves-droppers
and suckers are so common, as to render their testimony no immaterial
feature in nearly every cause of magnitude that is tried.
In such a state of society it is, indeed, unsafe for a suitor to open
his lips on his affairs, lest some one near him be employed to
catch up his words, and carry them into court with shades of
meaning gathered from his own imagination.

At first, Timms was under the impression that the Burtons
were going to sustain the defence, and he was placing himself on
the most amiable footing with the females, three of whom might
very reasonably be placed within the category of matrimony with
this rising lawyer; but, it was not long ere he ascertained that
Williams was getting to be intimate, and had proved to be a successful
rival. Davis, the nephew and heir of the Goodwins, was
a single man, too, and it is probable that his frequent visits to
the dwelling of the Burtons had a beneficial influence on his own
interests. Let the cause be what it might, the effect was clearly
to seal the lips of the whole family, not a member of which could
be induced, by any art practised by the agents of Timms, to utter
a syllable on a subject that now really seemed to be forbidden.
When, therefore, Burton appeared on the stand, and was sworn,
the two counsel for the defence waited for him to open his lips,
with a profound and common interest.

Burton knew the deceased, had lived all his life near them,
was at home the night of the fire, went to assist the old people,
saw the two skeletons, had no doubt they were the remains of
Peter Goodwin and his wife, observed the effects of a heavy blow
across the foreheads of each, the same that was still to be seen,

inferred that this blow had destroyed them, or so far stunned
them as to leave them incapable of escaping from the fire.

This witness was then questioned on the subject of the stocking,
and Mrs. Goodwin's hoard of money. He had seen the
stocking but once, had often heard it mentioned by his sisters,
did not think his wife had ever alluded to it, did not know the
amount of the gold, but supposed it might be very considerable,
saw the bureau examined, and knew that the stocking could not
be found. In a word, his testimony in chief went generally to
sustain the impression that prevailed relative to the murders,
though it is unnecessary to repeat it in this form, as the cross-examination
will better explain his statements and opinions.

“Mr. Burton,” said Dunscomb, “you knew the Goodwins
well?”

`Very well, sir. As well as near neighbours generally know
each other.”

“Can you swear that those are the skeletons of Peter and
Dorothy Goodwin?”

“I can swear that I believe them to be such — have no doubt
of the fact.”

“Point out that which you suppose to be the skeleton of Peter
Goodwin.”

This request embarrassed the witness. In common with all
around him, he had no other clue to his facts than the circumstances
under which these vestiges of mortality had been found,
and he did not know what ought to be his reply.

“I suppose the shortest of the skeletons to be Peter Goodwin's,
and the longest that of his wife,” he at length answered.
“Peter was not as tall as Dorothy.”

“Which is the shortest of these remains?”

“That I could not say, without measuring. I know that
Goodwin was not as tall as his wife by half an inch, for I have
seen them measure.”

“Then you would say that, in your opinion, the longest of
these two skeletons is that of Dorothy Goodwin, and the shortest
that of her husband?”

“Yes, sir; that is my opinion — formed to the best of my
knowledge. I have seen them measure.”

“Was this measurement accurate?”

“Very much so. They used to dispute about their height,
and they measured several times, when I was by; generally in
their stocking feet, and once barefoot.”

“The difference being half an inch in favour of the wife?”

“Yes, sir, as near as could be; for I was umpire more than
once.”

“Did Peter Goodwin and his wife live happily together?”

“Tolerable — much as other married folks get along.”

“Explain what you mean by that.”

“Why, there's ups and downs, I suppose, in all families.
Dorothy was high-tempered, and Peter was sometimes cross-grained.”

“Do you mean that they quarrelled?”

“They got r'iled with each other, now and then.”

“Was Peter Goodwin a sober man?”

The witness now appeared to be bothered. He looked around
him, and meeting everywhere with countenances which evidently
reflected `yes,' he had not the moral courage to run counter to
public opinion, and say `no.' It is amazing what a tyrant this concentration
of minds gets to be over those who are not very clear-headed
themselves, and who are not constituted, morally, to resist
its influence. It almost possesses a power to persuade these persons
not to put faith in their own senses, and disposes them to
believe what they hear, rather than what they have seen. Indeed,
one effect is to cause them to see with the eyes of others.
As the `neighbours,' those inquisitors who know so much of persons
of their association and intimacy, and so little of all others,

very generally fancied Peter a sober man, Burton scarce knew
what to answer. Circumstances had made him acquainted with
the delinquency of the old man, but his allegations would not be
sustained were he to speak the whole truth, since Peter had succeeded
in keeping his infirmity from being generally known. To
a man like the witness, it was easier to sacrifice the truth than
to face a neighbourhood.

“I suppose he was much as others,” answered Burton, after
a delay that caused some surprise. “He was human, and had a
human natur'. Independence days, and other rejoicings, I've
known him give in more than the temperance people think is
quite right; but I shouldn't say he was downright intemperate.”

“He drank to excess, then, on occasions?”

“Peter had a very weak head, which was his greatest difficulty.”

“Did you ever count the money in Mrs. Goodwin's stocking?”

“I never did. There was gold and paper; but how much I
do not know.”

“Did you see any strangers in or about the house of the
Goodwins, the morning of the fire?”

“Yes; two strange men were there, and were active in helping
the prisoner out of the window, and afterwards in getting
out the furniture. They were very particular in saving Mary
Monson's property.”

“Were those strangers near the bureau?”

“Not that I know. I helped carry the bureau out myself;
and I was present afterwards in court when it was examined for
the money. We found none.”

“What became of those strangers?”

“I cannot tell you. They were lost to me in the confusion.”

“Had you ever seen them before?”

“Never.”

“Nor since?”

“No, sir.”

“Will you have the goodness to take that rod, and tell me
what is the difference in length between the two skeletons?”

“I trust, your honour, that this is testimony which will not
be received,” put in Williams. “The fact is before the jury,
and they can take cognizance of it for themselves.”

Dunscomb smiled as he answered—

“The zeal of the learned gentleman runs ahead of his knowledge
of the rules of evidence. Does he expect the jury to
measure the remains; or are we to show the fact by means of
witnesses?”

“This is a cross-examination; and the question is one in chief.
The witness belongs to the defence, if the question is to be put
at all.”

“I think not, your honour. The witness has testified, in chief,
that he believes these remains to be those of Peter and Dorothy
Goodwin; he has further said, on his cross-examination, that
Dorothy was half an inch taller than Peter; we now wish to put
to the test the accuracy of the first opinion, by comparing the
two facts — his knowledge of the difference by the former measurement
as compared with the present. It has been said that
these two skeletons are very nearly of a length. We wish the
truth to be seen.”

“The witness will answer the question,” said the judge.

“I doubt the power of the court to compel a witness to obtain
facts in this irregular mode,” observed the pertinacious Williams.

“You can note your exceptions, brother Williams,” returned
the judge, smiling; “although it is not easy to see with what
useful consequences. If the prisoner be acquitted, you can hardly
expect to try her again; and, if convicted, the prosecution will
scarcely wish to press any objection.”

Williams, who was as much influenced by a bull-dog tenacity,
as by any other motive, now submitted; and Burton took the

rod and measured the skeletons, an office he might have declined,
most probably, had he seen fit. The spectators observed surprise
in his countenance; and he was seen to repeat the measurement,
seemingly with more care.

“Well, sir, what is the difference in the length of those
skeletons?” inquired Dunscomb.

“I make it about an inch and a half, if these marks are to be
relied on,” was the slow, cautious, well-considered reply.

“Do you now say that you believe these skeletons to be the
remains of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin?”

“Whose else can they be? They were found on the spot
where the old couple used to sleep.”

“I ask you to answer my question; I am not here to answer
yours. Do you still say that you believe these to be the skeletons
of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin?”

“I am a good deal non-plussed by this measurement—though
the flesh, and skin, and muscles, may have made a considerable
difference in life.”

“Certainly,” said Williams, with one of his withering sneers
— sneers that had carried many a cause purely by their impudence
and sarcasm — “Every one knows how much more muscle
a man has than a woman. It causes the great difference in their
strength. A bunch of muscles, more or less in the heel, would
explain all this, and a great deal more.”

“How many persons dwelt in the house of Goodwin at the
time of the fire?” demanded Dunscomb.

“They tell me Mary Monson was there, and I saw her there
during the fire; but I never saw her there before.”

“Do you know of any other inmate besides the old couple and
the prisoner?”

“I did see a strange woman about the house for a week or two
before the fire, but I never spoke to her. They tell me she was
High Dutch.”

“Never mind what they tell you, Mr. Burton” — observed
the judge — “testify only to what you know.”

“Did you see this strange woman at the fire, or after the fire?”
continued Dunscomb.

“I can't say that I did. I remember to have looked round
for her, too; but I did not find her.”

“Was her absence spoken of in the crowd at the time?”

“Something was said about it; but we were too much taken
up with the old couple to think a great deal of this stranger.”

This is an outline of Burton's testimony; though the cross-examination
was continued for more than an hour, and Williams
had him again examined in chief. That intrepid practitioner
contended that the defence had made Burton its own witness in
all that related to the measurement of the skeletons; and that
he had a right to a cross-examination. After all this contest, the
only fact of any moment elicited from the witness related to the
difference in stature between Goodwin and his wife, as has been
stated already.

In the mean time, Timms ascertained that the last report set
on foot by his own agents, at the suggestion of Mary Monson
herself, was circulating freely; and, though it was directly opposed
to the preceding rumour, which had found great favour
with the gossips, this extravagant tale was most greedily swallowed.
We conceive that those persons who are so constituted,
morally, as to find pleasure in listening to the idle rumours that
float about society, are objects of pity; their morbid desire to talk
of the affairs of others being a disease that presses them down
beneath the level they might otherwise occupy. With such persons,
the probabilities go for nothing; and they are more inclined
to give credit to a report that excites their interest, by running
counter to all the known laws of human actions, than to give
faith to its contradiction, when sustained by every reason that
experience sustains. Thus was it on the present occasion. There

was something so audacious in the rumour that Mary Monson
belonged to a gang of rogues in town, and had been sent especially
to rob the Goodwins, that vulgar curiosity found great
delight in it; the individual who heard the report usually sending
it on with additions of his own, that had their authority
purely in the workings of a dull imagination. It is in that way
that this great faculty of the mind is made to perform a double
duty; which in the one case is as pure and ennobling, as in the
other it is debasing and ignoble. The man of a rich imagination,
he who is capable of throwing the charms of poetical feeling
around the world in which we dwell, is commonly a man of truth.
The high faculty which he possesses seems, in such cases, to be
employed in ferreting out facts which, on proper occasions, he
produces distinctly, manfully, and logically. On the other hand,
there is a species of subordinate imagination that is utterly incapable
of embellishing life with charms of any sort, and which
delights in the false. This last is the imagination of the gossip.
It obtains some modicum of fact, mixes it with large quantities
of stupid fiction, delights in the idol it has thus fashioned out
of its own head, and sends it abroad to find worshippers as dull,
as vulgar-minded, and as uncharitable, as itself.

Timms grew frightened at the success of his client's scheme,
and felt the necessity of commencing the reaction at once, if the
last were to have time in which to produce its effect. He had
been warmly opposed to the project in the commencement, and
had strenuously resisted its adoption; but Mary Monson would
not listen to his objections. She even threatened to employ another,
should he fail her. The conceit seemed to have taken a
strong hold on her fancy; and all the wilfulness of her character
had come in aid of this strange scheme. The thing was done;
and it now remained to prevent its effecting the mischief it was
so well adapted to produce.

All this time, the fair prisoner sat in perfectly composed

silence, listening attentively to everything that was said, and
occasionally taking a note. Timms ventured to suggest that it
might be better were she to abstain from doing the last, as it
gave her the air of knowing too much, and helped to deprive her
of the interesting character of an unprotected female; but she
turned a perfectly deaf ear to his admonitions, hints, and counsel.
He was a safe adviser, nevertheless, in matters of this sort; but
Mary Monson was not accustomed so much to follow the leadings
of others, as to submit to her own impulses.

The sisters of Burton were next examined. They proved all
the admitted facts; testified as to the stocking and its contents;
and two of them recognised the piece of gold which was said to
have been found in Mary Monson's purse, as that which had
once been the property of Dorothy Goodwin. On this head, the
testimony of each was full, direct, and explicit. Each had often
seen the piece of gold, and they had noted a very small notch
or scratch near the edge, which notch or scratch was visible on
the piece now presented in court. The cross-examination failed
to shake this testimony, and well it might, for every word these
young women stated was strictly true. The experiment of placing
the piece of coin among other similar coin, failed with them.
They easily recognized the true piece by the notch. Timms was
confounded; Dunscomb looked very grave; Williams raised his
nose higher than ever; and Mary Monson was perfectly surprised.
When the notch was first mentioned, she arose, advanced
far enough to examine the coin, and laid her hand on her forehead,
as if she pondered painfully on the circumstance. The
testimony that this was the identical piece found in her purse
was very ample, the coin having been sealed up and kept by the
coroner, who had brought it into court; while it must now be
admitted that a very strong case was made out to show that
this foreign coin had once been among the hoards of Dorothy
Goodwin. A very deep impression was made by this testimony,

on all who heard it, including the court, the bar, the jury and
the audience. Every person present, but those who were in the
immediate confidence of the accused, was firmly convinced of
Mary Monson's guilt. Perhaps the only other exceptions to this
mode of thinking were a few experienced practitioners, who,
from long habit, knew the vast importance of hearing both sides,
before they made up their minds in a matter of so much moment.

We shall not follow Dunscomb through his long and arduous
cross-examination of the sisters of Burton; but confine ourselves
to a few of the more pertinent of the interrogatories that he put
to the eldest, and which were duly repeated when the other two
were placed on the stand.

“Will you name the persons dwelling in the house of the
Goodwins at the time of the fire?” asked Dunscomb.

“There were the two old folks, this Mary Monson, and a
German woman named Yetty (Jette), that aunt Dorothy took in
to wait on her boarders.”

“Was Mrs. Goodwin your aunt, then?”

“No; we wasn't related no how; but, being such near neighbours,
and she so old, we just called her aunt by way of a compliment.”

“I understand that,” said Dunscomb, arching his brows — “I am called uncle, and by very charming young persons, on the
same principle. Did you know much of this German?”

“I saw her almost every day for the time she was there, and
talked with her as well as I could; but she spoke very little
English. Mary Monson was the only person who could talk
with her freely; she spoke her language.”

“Had you much acquaintance with the prisoner at the bar?”

“I was some acquainted; as a body always is, when they live
such near neighbours.”

“Were your conversations with the prisoner frequent, or at
all confidential?”

“To own the truth, I never spoke to her in my life. Mary
Monson was much too grand for me.”

Dunscomb smiled; he understood how common it was for
persons in this country to say they are “well acquainted” with
this or that individual, when their whole knowledge is derived
from the common tongue. An infinity of mischief is done by
this practice; but the ordinary American who will admit that
he lives near any one, without having an acquaintance with him,
if acquaintance is supposed to confer credit, is an extraordinary
exception to a very general rule. The idea of being “too grand”
was of a nature to injure the prisoner and to impair her rights; and
Dunscomb deemed it best to push the witness a little on this point.

“Why did you think Mary Monson was `too grand' for you?”
he demanded.

“Because she looked so.”

“How did she look? — In what way does or did her looks
indicate that she was, or thought herself `too grand' for your
association?”

“Is this necessary, Mr. Dunscomb?” demanded the judge.

“I beg your honour will suffer the gentleman to proceed,” put
in Williams, cocking his nose higher than ever, and looking round
the court-room with an air of intelligence that the great York
counsellor did not like. “It is an interesting subject; and we
poor, ignorant, Duke's county folks, may get useful ideas, to teach
us how to look `too grand!”'

Dunscomb felt that he had made a false step; and he had the
self-command to stop.

“Had you any conversation with the German woman?” he
continued, bowing slightly to the judge to denote submission to
his pleasure.

“She couldn't talk English. Mary Monson talked with her.
I didn't, to any account.”

“Were you at the fire?”

“I was.”

“Did you see anything of this German during the fire, or
afterwards?”

“I didn't. She disappeared, unaccountable!”

“Did you visit the Goodwins as often after Mary Monson
came to live with them, as you had done previously?”

“I didn't — grand looks and grand language isn't agreeable
to me.”

“Did Mary Monson ever speak to you?”

“I think, your honour,” objected Williams, who did not like
the question, “that this is travelling out of the record.”

“Let the gentleman proceed — time is precious, and a discussion
would lose us more of it than to let him proceed — go on,
Mr. Dunscomb.”

“Did Mary Monson ever speak to you?”

“She never did, to my knowledge.”

“What, then, do you mean by `grand language?”'

“Why, when she spoke to aunt Dorothy, she didn't speak as
I was used to hear folks speak.”

“In what respect was the difference?”

“She was grander in her speech, and more pretending like.”

“Do you mean louder?”

“No — perhaps she wasn't as loud as common — but 'twas
more like a book, and uncommon.”

Dunscomb understood all this perfectly, as well as the feeling
which lay at its bottom, but he saw that the jury did not; and
he was forced to abandon the inquiry, as often happens on such
occasions, on account of the ignorance of those to whom the
testimony was addressed. He soon after abandoned the cross-examination
of the sister of Burton; when his wife was brought
upon the stand by the prosecution.

This woman, coming from a different stock, had none of the
family characteristics of the sisters. As they were garrulous,

forward, and willing enough to testify, she was silent, reserved
in manner, thoughtful, and seemingly so diffident that she trembled
all over, as she laid her hand on the sacred volume. Mrs.
Burton passed for a very good woman among all who dwelt in or
near Biberry; and there was much more confidence felt in her
revelations than in those of her sisters-in-law. Great modesty,
not to say timidity of manner, an air of singular candour, a low,
gentle voice, and an anxious expression of countenance, as if she
weighed the import of every syllable she uttered, soon won for
this witness the sympathy of all present, as well as perfect credence.
Every word she uttered had a direct influence on the
case; and this so much the more since she testified reluctantly,
and would gladly have been permitted to say nothing.

The account given by Mrs. Burton, in her examination in
chief, did not materially differ from that previously stated by her
sisters-in-law. She knew more, in some respects, than those who
had preceded her, while, in others, she knew less. She had been
more in the confidence of Dorothy Goodwin than any other member
of her family, had seen her oftener, and knew more of her
private affairs. With the stocking and its contents she admitted
that she was familiarly acquainted. The gold exceeded
twelve hundred dollars in amount; she had counted it, in her
own hands. There was paper, also, but she did not know how
much, exactly, as Dorothy kept that very much to herself. She
knew, however, that her neighbours talked of purchasing a farm,
the price of which was quite five thousand dollars, a sum that
Dorothy often talked of paying down. She thought the deceased
must have had money to that amount, in some form or other.

On the subject of the piece of gold found in Mary Monson's
purse, Mrs. Burton gave her testimony with the most amiable
discretion. Every one compared the reserve and reluctance of
her manner most favourably with the pert readiness of Mrs. Pope
and the sisters. This witness appeared to appreciate the effect

of all she said, and uttered the facts she knew with a gentleness
of manner that gave great weight to her testimony. Dunscomb
soon saw that this was the witness the defence had most reason
to dread, and he used the greatest care in having every word she
said written out with precision.

Mrs. Burton swore point blank to the piece of notched gold,
although she fairly trembled as she gave her testimony. She
knew it was the very piece that she had often seen in Dorothy
Goodwin's possession; she had examined it, at least a dozen
times, and could have selected it among a thousand similar coins,
by means of its private marks. Besides the notch, there was a
slight defect in the impression of the date. This had been
pointed out to her by Dorothy Goodwin herself, who had said it
was a good mark by which to know the piece, should it be stolen.
On this head, the witness's testimony was firm, clear, and full.
As it was corroborated by so much other evidence, the result was
a deep and very general impression of the prisoner's guilt.

It was late when the examination in chief of Mrs. Burton terminated.
She stated that she was much fatigued, and was suffering
under a severe headache; and Williams asked, in her
behalf, that the court would adjourn over, until next day, ere the
cross-examination was gone into. This suited Dunscomb's views
altogether, for he knew he might lose an essential advantage by
allowing the witness a night to arrange her thoughts, pending so
searching a process. There being no resistance on the part of
the prisoner, to the request of the prosecution, the judge so far
waived his regard for the precious time of the court, as to consent
to adjourn at eight o'clock in the evening, instead of pushing the
case to ten or eleven. As a consequence the jurors took their
rest in bed, instead of sleeping in the jury-box.

Dunscomb left the court-house, that night, dejected, and with
no great expectation of the acquittal of his client. Timms had
a better feeling, and thought nothing had yet appeared that might
not be successfully resisted.