University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

Otway.

So great was the confidence of Sarah Wilmeter and Anna Updyke
in the innocence of their friend, that almost every step that
the trial advanced, appeared to them as so much progress towards
an eventual acquittal. It was perhaps a little singular, that the
party most interested, she who knew her own guilt or innocence,
became dejected, and for the first half hour after they had left
the court-room, she was silent and thoughtful. Good Mrs. Gott
was quite in despair, and detained Anna Updyke, with whom
she had established a sort of intimacy, as she opened the door of
the gallery for the admission of the party, in order to say a word
on the subject that lay nearest to her heart.

“Oh! Miss Anna,” said the sheriff's wife, “it goes from bad
to worse! It was bad enough last evening, and it is worse tonight.”

“Who tells you this, Mrs. Gott? So far from thinking as
you do, I regard it as appearing particularly favourable.”

“You must have heard what Burton said, and what his wife
said, too. They are the witnesses I dread.”

“Yes, but who will mind what such persons say! I am sure
if fifty Mr. and Mrs. Burtons were to testify that Mary Monson
had taken money that did not belong to her, I should not believe
them.”

“You are not a Duke's county jury! Why, Miss Anna, these
men will believe almost anything you tell them. Only swear to
it, and there's no accounting for their credulity. No; I no
more believe in Mary Monson's guilt, than I do in my own; but
law is law, they say, and rich and poor must abide by it.”

“You view the matter under a false light, my kind-hearted
Mrs. Gott, and after a night's rest will see the case differently.
Sarah and I have been delighted with the course of things. You
must have remarked no one said that Mary Monson had been
seen to set fire to the house, or to harm the Goodwins, or to
touch their property, or to do anything that was wrong; and of
course she must be acquitted.”

“I wish that piece of gold had not been found in her pocket!
It's that which makes all the trouble.”

“I think nothing of that, my good friend. There is nothing
remarkable in two pieces of money having the same marks on
them; I have seen that often, myself. Besides, Mary Monson
explains all that, and her declaration is as good as that of this
Mrs. Burton's, any day.”

“Not in law, Miss Anna; no, not in law. Out of doors it
might be much better, and probably is; but not in court, by
what they tell me. Gott says it is beginning to look very dark,
and that we, in the gaol, here, must prepare for the very worst.
I tell him, if I was he, I'd resign before I'd execute such a
beautiful creature!”

“You make me shudder with such horrid thoughts, Mrs.
Gott, and I will thank you to open the door. Take courage;
we shall never have to lament such a catastrophe, or your husband
to perform so revolting a duty.”

“I hope not — I'm sure I hope not, with all my heart. I
would prefer that Gott should give up all hopes of ever rising
any higher, than have him do this office. One never knows,
Miss Anna, what is to happen in life, though I was as happy as

a child when he was made sheriff. If my words have any weight
with him, and he often says they have, I shall never let him
execute Mary Monson. You are young, Miss Anna; but you've
heard the tongue of flattery, I make no doubt, and know how
sweet it is to woman's ear.”

Mrs. Gott had been wiping her eyes with one hand, and putting
the key into the lock with the other, while talking, and she
now stood regarding her young companion with a sort of motherly
interest, as she made this appeal to her experience. Anna
blushed `rosy red,' and raised her gloved hand to turn the key,
as if desirous of getting away from the earnest look of the matron.

“That's just the way with all of us, Miss Anna!” continued
Mrs. Gott. “We listen, and listen, and listen; and believe, and
believe, and believe, until we are no longer the gay, light-hearted
creatures that we were, but become mopy, and sighful, and
anxious, to a degree that makes us forget father and mother,
and fly from the paternal roof.”

“Will you have the kindness, now, to let me into the gaol?”
said Anna, in the gentlest voice imaginable.

“In a minute, my dear — I call you my dear, because I like
you; for I never use what Gott calls `high flown.' There is
Mr. John Wilmeter, now, as handsome and agreeable a youth
as ever came to Biberry. He comes here two or three times a
day, and sits and talks with me in the most agreeable way, until
I've got to like him better than any young man of my acquaintance.
He talks of you, quite half the time; and when he is not
talking of you, he is thinking of you, as I know by the way he
gazes at this very door.”

“Perhaps his thoughts are on Mary Monson,” answered Anna,
blushing scarlet. “You know she is a sort of client of his, and
he has been here in her service, for a good while.”

“She hardly ever saw him; scarcely ever, except at this
grate. His foot never crossed this threshold, until his uncle

came; and since, I believe he has gone in but once. Mary
Monson is not the being he worships.”

“I trust he worships the Being we all worship, Mrs. Gott,”
struggling gently to turn the key, and succeeding. “It is not
for us poor frail beings to talk of being worshipped.”

“Or of worshipping, as I tell Gott,” said the sheriff's wife,
permitting her companion to depart.

Anna found Mary Monson and Sarah walking together in the
gallery, conversing earnestly.

“It is singular that nothing reaches us from Michael Millington!”
exclaimed the last, as Anna interlocked arms with her,
and joined the party. “It is now near eight-and-forty hours
since my uncle sent him to town.”

“On my business?” demanded Mary Monson, quickly.

“Certainly; on no other — though what it was that took him
away so suddenly, I have not been told. I trust you will be
able to overturn all that these Burtons have said, and to repair
the mischief they have done?”

“Fear nothing for me, Miss Wilmeter,” answered the prisoner,
with singular steadiness of manner — “I tell you, as I
have often told your friend, I must be acquitted. Let justice
take its course, say I, and the guilty be punished. I have a clue
to the whole story, as I believe, and must make provision for tomorrow.
Do you two, dear, warm-hearted friends as you are,
now leave me; and when you reach the inn, send Mr. Dunscomb
hither, as soon as possible. Not that Timms; but noble, honest,
upright Mr. Dunscomb. Kiss me, each of you, and so good
night. Think of me in your prayers. I am a great sinner, and
have need of your prayers.”

The wishes of Mary Monson were obeyed, and the young ladies
left the gaol for the night. Ten minutes later Dunscomb
reached the place, and was admitted. His conference with his
client was long, intensely interesting, and it quite unsettled the

notions he had now, for some time, entertained of her guilt. She
did not communicate any thing concerning her past life, nor did
she make any promises on that subject; but she did communicate
facts of great importance, as connected with the result of her
trial. Dunscomb left her, at a late hour, with views entirely
changed, hopes revived, and his resolution stimulated. He made
ample entries in his brief; nor did he lay his head on his pillow
until it was very late.

The little court-house bell rang as usual, next morning, and
judge, jurors, witnesses, lawyers, and the curious in general, collected
as before, without any ceremony, though in decent quiet.
The case was now getting to be so serious, that all approached it
as truly a matter of life and death; even the reporters submitting
to an impulse of humanity, and viewing the whole affair less in
a business point of view, than as one which might carry a singularly
gifted woman into the other world. The first act of the
day opened by putting Mrs. Burton on the stand, for her cross-examination.
As every intelligent person present understood
that on her testimony depended the main result, the fall of a pin
might almost have been heard, so profound was the general wish
to catch what was going on. The witness, however, appeared to
be calm, while the advocate was pale and anxious. He had the
air of one who had slept little the past night. He arranged his
papers with studied care, made each movement deliberately, compressed
his lips, and seemed to be bringing his thoughts into
such a state of order and distinctness that each might be resorted
to as it was needful. In point of fact, Dunscomb foresaw that
a human life depended very much on the result of this cross-examination,
and like a conscientious man, he was disposed to do
his whole duty. No wonder, then, that he paused to reflect, was
deliberate in his acts, and concentrated in feeling.

“We will first give our attention to this piece of gold, Mrs.
Burton,” the counsel for the prisoner mildly commenced, motioning

to the coroner, who was in court, to show the witness the
piece of money so often examined. “Are you quite certain that
it is the very coin that you saw in the possession of Mrs. Goodwin?”

“Absolutely certain, sir. As certain as I am of anything in
the world.”

“Mrs. Burton, I wish you to remember that the life of the
prisoner at the bar will, most probably, be affected by your testimony.
Be kind enough, then, to be very guarded and close in
your answers. Do you still say that this is the precise coin that
you once saw in Mrs. Goodwin's stocking?”

The witness seemed suddenly struck with the manner of the
advocate. She trembled from head to foot. Still, Dunscomb
spoke mildly, kindly even; and the idea conveyed in the present,
was but a repetition of that conveyed in the former question.
Nevertheless, those secret agencies, by means of which thought
meets thought, unknown to all but their possessors; that set in
motion, as it might be, all the covert currents of the mind, causing
them to flow towards similar streams in the mind of another,
were now at work, and Dunscomb and the witness had a clue to
each other's meaning that entirely escaped the observation of all
around them. There is nothing novel in this state of secret intelligence.
It doubtless depends on a mutual consciousness, and
a common knowledge of certain material facts, the latter being
applied by the former, with promptitude and tact. Notwithstanding
her sudden alarm, and the change it brought over her
entire manner, Mrs. Burton answered the question as before;
what was more, she answered it truly. The piece of gold found
in Mary Monson's purse, and now in possession of the coroner,
who had kept it carefully, in order to identify it, had been in
Dorothy Goodwin's stocking.

“Quite certain, sir. I know that to be the same piece of
money that I saw, at different times, in Mrs. Goodwin's stocking.”

“Did you ever have that gold coin in your own hand, Mrs.
Burton, previously to this trial?”

This was a very natural and simple interrogatory; one that
might be, and probably was, anticipated; yet it gave the witness
uneasiness, more from the manner of Dunscomb, perhaps, than
from anything in the nature of the inquiry itself. The answer,
however, was given promptly, and, as before, with perfect
truth.

“On several occasions, sir. I saw that notch, and talked with
Mrs. Goodwin about it, more than once.”

“What was the substance of Mrs. Goodwin's remarks, in relation
to that notch?”

“She asked me, one time, if I thought it lessened the weight
of the coin; and if so, how much I thought it might take away
from its value?”

“What was your answer?”

“I believe I said I did not think it could make any great difference.”

“Did Mrs. Goodwin ever tell you how, or where, she got that
piece of money?”

“Yes, sir, she did. She told me it came from Mary Monson.”

“In pay for board; or, for what purpose did it pass from one
to the other?”

This, too, was a very simple question, but the witness no longer
answered promptly. The reader will remember that Mary Monson
had said, before the coroner, that she had two of these coins,
and that she had given one of them to the poor unfortunate deceased,
and had left the other in her own purse. This answer
had injured the cause of the accused, inasmuch as it was very
easy to tell such a tale, while few in Biberry were disposed to
believe that gold passed thus freely, and without any consideration,
from hand to hand. Mrs. Burton remembered all this,

and, for a reason best known to herself, she shrunk a little from
making the required reply. Still she did answer this question
also, and answered it truly.

“I understood aunt Dolly to say that Mary Monson made her
a present of that piece of money.”

Here Timms elevated his nose, and looked around him in a
meaning manner, that appealed to the audience to know if his
client were not a person of veracity. Sooth to say, this answer
made a strong impression in favour of the accused, and Dunscomb
saw with satisfaction that, in-so-much, he had materially
gained ground. He was not a man to gain it, however, by dramatic
airs; he merely paused for a few moments, in order to give
full effect to this advantage.

“Mrs. Goodwin, then, owned to you that she had the coin
from Mary Monson, and that it was a present?” was the next
question.

“She did, sir.”

“Did she say anything about Mary Monson's having another
piece of money, like the one before you, and which was given by
her to Dorothy Goodwin?”

A long pause succeeded. The witness raised a hand to her
brow, and appeared to meditate. Her reputation for taciturnity
and gravity of deportment was such, that most of those in court
believed she was endeavouring to recollect the past, in order to
say neither more nor less than the truth. In point of fact, she
was weighing well the effect of her words, for she was a person
of extreme caution, and of great reputed probity of character.
The reply came at length —

“She did speak on the subject,” she said, “and did state
something of the kind.”

“Can you recollect her words — if so, give them to the jury
— if not her very words, their substance.”

“Aunt Dolly had a way of her own in talking, which makes

it very difficult to repeat her precise words; but she said, in substance,
that Mary Monson had two of these pieces of money, one
of which was given to her.”

“Mary Monson, then, kept the other?”

“So I understood it, sir.”

“Have you any knowledge yourself, on this subject? — If so,
state it to the jury.”

Another pause, one even longer than before, and again the
hand was raised to the brow. The witness now spoke with extreme
caution, seeming to feel her way among the facts, as a cat
steals on its prey.

“I believe I have — a little — some — I have seen Mary
Monson's purse, and I believe I saw a piece of money in it which
resembled this.”

“Are you not certain of the fact?”

“Perhaps I am.”

Here Dunscomb's face was lighted with a smile; he evidently
was encouraged.

“Were you present, Mrs. Burton, when Mary Monson's purse
was examined, in presence of the inquest?”

“I was.”

“Did you then see its contents?”

“I did” — after the longest pause of all.

“Had you that purse in your hand, ma'am?”

The brow was once more shaded, and the recollection seemingly
taxed.

“I think I had. It was passed round among us, and I believe
that I touched it, as well as others.”

“Are you not certain that you did so?”

“Yes, sir. Now, I reflect, I know that I did. The piece of
money found in Mary Monson's purse, was passed from one to
another, and to me, among the rest.”

“This was very wrong,” observed his honour.

“It was wrong, sir; but not half as wrong as the murders
and arson,” coolly remarked Williams.

“Go on, gentlemen — time is precious.”

“Now, Mrs. Burton, I wish to ask you a very particular question,
and I beg that your answer may be distinct and guarded —
did you ever have access to the piece of gold found, or said to be
found, in Mary Monson's purse, except on the occasion of the
inquest?”

The longest pause of all, and the deepest shading of the brow.
So long was the self-deliberation this time, as to excite a little
remark among the spectators. Still, it was no more than prudent
to be cautious, in a cause of so much importance.

“I certainly have, sir,” was the reply that came at last. “I
saw it in Dorothy Goodwin's stocking, several times; had it in
my hand, and examined it. This is the way I came to discover
the notch. Aunt Dolly and I talked about that notch, as I
have already told the court.”

“Quite true, ma'am, we remember that; all your answers are
carefully written out —”

“I'm sure nothing that I have said can be written out, which
is not true, sir.”

“We are to suppose that. And now, ma'am, permit me to
ask if you ever saw that piece of money at any other time than
at those you have mentioned. Be particular in the answer.”

“I may,” after a long pause.

“Do you not know?”

“I do not, sir.”

“Will you say, on your oath, that you cannot recollect any
one occasion, other than those you have mentioned, on which you
have seen and handled that piece of money?”

“When aunt Dolly showed it to me, before the coroner, and
here in court. I recollect no other time.”

“Let me put this question to you again, Mrs. Burton — recalling

the solemnity of the oath you have taken — have you, or
have you not, seen that piece of money on any other occasion
than those you have just mentioned?”

“I do not remember ever to have seen it at any other time,”
answered the woman, firmly.

Mary Monson gave a little start, and Dunscomb appeared disappointed.
Timms bit his lip, and looked anxiously at the jury,
while Williams once more cocked his nose, and looked around
him in triumph. If the witness spoke the truth, she was now
likely to adhere to it; if, on the other hand, there were really
any ground for Dunscomb's question, the witness had passed the
Rubicon, and would adhere to her falsehood even more tenaciously
than she would adhere to the truth. The remainder of
this cross-examination was of very little importance. Nothing
further was obtained from the witness that went to shake her
testimony.

Our limits will not permit a detailed account of all the evidence
that was given in behalf of the prosecution. All that appeared
before the inquest was now introduced, methodized and
arranged by Williams; processes that rendered it much more
respectable than it had originally appeared to be. At length it
came to the turn of the defence to open. This was a task that
Dunscomb took on himself, Timms, in his judgment, being unequal
to it. His opening was very effective, in the way of argument,
though necessarily not conclusive, the case not making in
favour of his client.

The public expected important revelations as to the past history
of the prisoner, and of this Timms had apprised Dunscomb.
The latter, however, was not prepared to make them. Mary
Monson maintained all her reserve, and Millington did not return.
The cause was now so far advanced as to render it improbable
that any facts, of this nature, could be obtained in sufficient
season to be used, and the counsel saw the necessity of

giving a new turn to this particular point in the case. He consequently
complained that the prosecution had neglected to show
anything in the past life of the accused to render it probable she
had been guilty of the offences with which she was charged.
“Mary Monson appears here,” he went on to say, “with a character
as fair as that of any other female in the community. This
is the presumption of law, and you will truly regard her, gentlemen,
as one that is innocent until she is proved to be guilty.”
The inference drawn from the silence of the prosecution was not
strictly logical, perhaps; but Dunscomb managed at least to mystify
the matter in such a way as to prepare the jury to hear a
defence that would be silent on this head, and to leave a doubt
whether this silence were not solely the fault of the counsel for
the prosecution. While he was commenting on this branch of
the subject, Williams took notes furiously, and Timms foresaw
that he meant to turn the tables on them, at the proper moment.

Pretty much as a matter of course, Dunscomb was compelled
to tell the court and jury that the defence relied principally on
the insufficiency of the evidence of the other side. This was
altogether circumstantial; and the circumstances, as he hoped to
be able to convince the jury, were of a nature that admitted of
more than one construction. Whenever this was the case, it was
the duty of the jury to give the accused the full benefit of these
doubts. The rest of the opening had the usual character of appeals
to the sympathy and justice of the jury, very prudently
and properly put.

Dr. McBrain was now placed upon the stand, when the customary
questions were asked, to show that he was a witness entitled
to the respect of the court. He was then further interrogated,
as follows:—

“Have you seen the two skeletons that are now in court, and
which are said to have been taken from the ruins of the house
of the Goodwins?”

“I have. I saw them before the inquest; and I have again
examined them here, in court.”

“What do you say, as to their sex?”

“I believe them both to be the skeletons of females.”

“Do you feel certain of this fact?”

“Reasonably so, but not absolutely. No one can pronounce
with perfect certainty in such a case; more especially when the
remains are in the state in which these have been found. We
are guided principally by the comparative size of the bones; and,
as these are affected by the age of the subject, it is hazardous to
be positive. I can only say that I think both of these skeletons
belonged to female subjects; particularly the shortest.”

“Have you measured the skeletons?”

“I have, and find one rather more than an inch and a half
shorter than the other. The longest measures quite five feet
seven and a half, in the state in which it is; while the shortest
measures a trifle less than five feet six. If women, both were
of unusual stature; particularly the first. I think that the bones
of both indicate that they belonged to females; and I should
have thought the same had I known nothing of the reports which
have reached my ears touching the persons whose remains these
are said to be.”

“When you first formed your opinion of the sex of those to
whom these remains belonged, had you heard that there was a
German woman staying in the house of the Goodwins at the
time of the fire?”

“I think not; though I have taken so little heed of these
rumours as to be uncertain when I first heard this circumstance.
I do remember, however, that I was under the impression the
remains were, beyond a doubt, those of Peter Goodwin and his
wife, when I commenced the examination of them; and I very
distinctly recollect the surprise I felt when the conviction crossed
my mind that both were the skeletons of women. From the

nature of this feeling, I rather think I could not have heard anything
of the German female at that time.”

The cross-examination of Dr McBrain was very long and
searching; but it did not materially affect the substance of his
testimony. On the contrary, it rather strengthened it; since he
had it in his power to explain himself more fully under the interrogatories
of Williams, than he could do in an examination in
chief. Still, he could go no farther than give his strong belief;
declining to pronounce positively on the sex of either individual,
in the state in which the remains were found.

Although nothing positive was obtained from this testimony,
the minds of the jurors were pointedly directed to the circumstance
of the sudden and unexplained disappearance of the German
woman; thus making an opening for the admission of a
serious doubt connected with the fate of that person.

It was a sad thing to reflect that, beyond this testimony of
McBrain, there was little other direct evidence to offer in behalf
of the accused. It is true, the insufficiency of that which had
been produced by the prosecution might avail her much; and on
this Dunscomb saw that his hopes of an acquittal must depend;
but he could not refrain from regretting, and that bitterly, that
the unmoved resolution of his client not to let her past life be
known, must so much weaken his case, were she innocent, and
so much fortify that of the prosecution, under the contrary supposition.
Another physician or two were examined to sustain
McBrain; but, after all, the condition of the remains was such
as to render any testimony questionable. One witness went so
far as to say, it is true, that he thought he could distinguish
certain unerring signs of the sex in the length of the lower
limbs, and in other similar proof; but even McBrain was forced
to admit that such distinctions were very vague and unsatisfactory.
His own opinion was formed more from the size of the bones,
generally, than from any other proof. In general, there was

little difficulty in speaking of the sex of the subject, when the
skeleton was entire and well preserved, and particularly when
the teeth furnished some clue to the age; but, in this particular
case, as has already been stated, there could be no such thing as
absolute certainty.

It was with a heavy heart, and with many an anxious glance
cast towards the door, in the hope of seeing Michael Millington
enter, that Dunscomb admitted the prisoner had no further testimony
to offer. He had spun out the little he did possess, in
order to give it an appearance of importance which it did not
actually bring with it, and to divert the minds of the jurors from
the impression they had probably obtained, of the remains necessarily
being those of Goodwin and his wife.

The summing up on both sides was a grave and solemn scene.
Here Williams was thrown out, the District Attorney choosing
to perform his own duty on an occasion so serious. Dunscomb
made a noble appeal to the justice of the court and jury; admonishing
both of the danger of yielding too easily to circumstantial
evidence. It was the best possible proof, he admitted, when the
circumstances were sufficiently clear and sufficiently shown to be
themselves beyond controversy. That Mary Monson dwelt with
the Goodwins, was in the house at the time of the arson and
murder, if such crimes were ever committed at all; that she
escaped and all her property was saved, would of themselves
amount to nothing. The testimony, indeed, on several of these
heads, rather told in her favour than the reverse. The witnesses
for the prosecution proved that she was in her room, beneath the
roof, when the flames broke out, and was saved with difficulty.
This was a most material fact, and Dunscomb turned it to good
account. Would an incendiary be apt to place herself in a situation
in which her own life was in danger; and this, too, under
circumstances that rendered no such measure necessary? Then,
all the facts connected with Mary Monson's residence and habits

told in her favour. Why should she remain so long at the cottage,
if robbery was her only purpose? The idea of her belonging to
a gang that had sent her to make discoveries and to execute its
plans, was preposterous; for what hindered any of the men of
that gang from committing the crimes in the most direct manner,
and with the least loss of time? No; if Mary Monson were
guilty, she was undoubtedly guilty on her own account; and had
been acting with the uncertain aim and hand of a woman. The
jury must discard all notions of accomplices, and consider the
testimony solely in connection with the acts of the accused.
Accomplices, and those of the nature supposed, would have
greatly simplified the whole of the wretched transaction. They
would have rendered both the murders and arson unnecessary.
The bold and strong do not commit these crimes, except in those
cases in which resistance renders them necessary. Here was
clearly no resistance, as was shown by the quiet positions in which
the skeletons had been found. If a murder was directly committed,
it must have been by the blow on the heads; and the
jury was asked to consider whether a delicate female like Mary
Monson had even the physical force necessary to strike such a
blow. With what instrument was it done? Nothing of the sort
was found near the bodies; and no proof of any such blow was
before the jury. One witness had said that the iron-work of a
plough lay quite near the remains; and it had been shown that
Peter Goodwin kept such articles in a loft over his bed-room.
He would suggest the possibility of the fire's having commenced
in that loft, through which the pipe of a cooking-stove led; of
its having consumed the beams of the floor; letting down this
plough and share upon the heads of the sleeping couple below,
stunning, if not killing them; thus leaving them unresisting
subjects to the action of the element. McBrain had been
examined on this point, which we omitted to state in its place, to
prevent repetition. He, and the two other doctors brought forward
for the defence, had tried to place the ploughshare on the
skulls; and were of opinion that the injuries might have been
inflicted by that piece of iron. But Mary Monson could not use
such an instrument. This was beyond all dispute. If the ploughshare
inflicted the blow—and the testimony on this point was at
least entitled to respect—then was Mary Monson innocent of any
murder committed by direct means. It is true, she was responsible
for all her acts; and if she set fire to the building, she was
probably guilty of murder as well as of arson. But would she
have done this, and made no provision for her own escape? The
evidence was clear that she was rescued by means of a ladder,
and through a window; and that there were no other means of
escape.”

Dunscomb reasoned on these several points with great force
and ingenuity. So clear were his statements, so logical his inferences,
and so candid his mode of arguing, that he had produced a
great effect ere he closed this branch of his subject. It is true,
that one far more difficult remained to be met; to answer which
he now set about with fear and trembling.

We allude to the piece of money alleged to have been found
in Mary Monson's purse. Dunscomb had very little difficulty in
disposing of the flippant widow Pope; but the Burton family
gave him more trouble. Nevertheless, it was his duty to endeavour to get rid of them, or at least so far to weaken their testimony
as to give his client the benefit of the doubt. There was,
in truth, but one mode of doing this. It was to impress on the
jury the probability that the coin had been changed in passing
from hand to hand. It is true, it was not easy to suggest any
plausible reason why such an act of treachery should have been
committed; but it was a good legal point to show that this piece
of money had not, at all times, been absolutely under the eye or
within the control of the corner. If there were a possibility of
a change, the fact should and ought to tell in favour of his client.

Mrs. Burton had made admissions on this point which entitled
the prisoner to press the facts on the minds of the jurors; and
her counsel did not fail so to do, with clearness and energy.
After all, this was much the most difficult point of the case; and
it would not admit of a perfectly satisfactory solution.

The conclusion of Dunscomb's summing up was manly, touching,
even eloquent. He spoke of a lone and defenceless female,
surrounded by strangers, being dragged to the bar on charges of
such gravity; pointed to his client where she sat enthralled by
his language, with all the signs of polished refinement on her
dress, person, and manners; delicate, feminine, and beautiful;
and asked if any one, who had the soul and feelings of a man,
could believe that such a being had committed the crimes imputed
to Mary Monson.

The appeal was powerful, and was dwelt on just long enough
to give it full and fair effect. It left the bench, the bar, the jury-box,
the whole audience in fact, in tears. The prisoner alone
kept an unmoistened eye; but it was in a face flushed with feeling.
Her self-command was almost supernatural.