University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

The Distressed Mother.

The District Attorney was fully impressed with the importance
of the duty that had now devolved on him. Although we have
daily proofs on all sides of us, of the truth of that remark of
Bacon's, “that no man rises to eminence in the State without a
mixture of great and mean qualities,” this favourite of the people
had his good points as well as another. He was a humane
man; and, contrary to the expectations, and greatly to the disappointment
of Williams, he now took on himself the office of
summing up.

The public functionary commenced in a mild, quiet manner,
manifesting by the key on which he pitched his voice a natural
reluctance to his painful duty; but he was steady and collected.
He opened with a brief summary of the facts. A strange female,
of high personal pretensions, had taken lodgings in an humble
dwelling. That dwelling contained a considerable sum of money.
Some counted it by thousands; all by hundreds. In either case,
it was a temptation to the covetous and ill-disposed. The lodgings
were unsuited to the habits of the guest; but she endured them
for several weeks. A fire occurred, and the house was consumed.
The remains of the husband and wife were found, as the jury
saw them, with marks of violence on their skulls. A deadly

blow had been struck by some one. The bureau containing the
money was found locked, but the money itself was missing. One
piece of that money was known, and it was traced to the purse
of the female lodger. This stranger was arrested; and, in her
mode of living in the gaol, in her expenditures of every sort,
she exhibited the habits and profusion of one possessed of considerable
sums. Doubtless many of the reports in circulation were
false; exaggerations ever accompanied each statement of any
unusual occurrence; but enough was proved to show that Mary
Monson had a considerable amount of money at command.
Whence came these funds? That which was lightly obtained
went lightly. The jury were exhorted to reject every influence
but that which was sustained by the evidence. All that had been
here stated rested on uncontradicted, unresisted testimony.

There was no desire to weaken the force of the defence. This
defence had been ingeniously and powerfully presented; and to
what did it amount. The direct, unequivocal evidence of Mrs.
Burton, as to her knowledge of the piece of money, and all that
related to it, and this evidence sustained by so much that was
known to others, the coroner included, was met by a conjecture!
This conjecture was accompanied by an insinuation that some
might suppose reflected on the principal witness; but it was only
an insinuation. There were two legal modes of attacking the
credibility of a witness. One was by showing habitual mendacity;
the other by demonstrating from the evidence itself, that
the testimony could not be true. Had either been done in the
present instance? The District Attorney thought not. One,
and this the most common course, had not even been attempted.
Insinuations, rather than just deductions, he was compelled to
say, notwithstanding his high respect for the learned counsel
opposed to him, had been the course adopted. That counsel had
contended that the circumstances were not sufficient to justify a
verdict of guilty. Of this, the jury were the sole judges. If

they believed Mrs. Burton, sustained as she was by so much other
testimony, they must admit that Dorothy Goodwin's money was
found in Mary Monson's purse. This was the turning point of
the case. All depended on the construction of this one fact.
He left it to the jury, to their good sense, to their consciences.

On the part of the defence, great stress had been laid on the
circumstance that Mary Monson was herself rescued from the
flames with some difficulty. But for assistance, she would most
probably have perished. The District Attorney desired to deny
nothing that could justly go to prove the prisoner's innocence.
The fact was unquestionably as stated. But for assistance, Mary
Monson might have perished. But assistance was not wanting;
for strangers were most opportunely at hand, and they did this
piece of good service. They remained until all was over, and
vanished. No one knew them; whence they came, or whither
they went. Important agents in saving a life, they had gone
without their reward, and were not even named in the newspaper
accounts of the occurrence. Reporters generally tell more than
happens; in this instance, they were mute.

As for the danger of the prisoner, it might have happened in a
variety of ways that affected neither her guilt nor her innocence.
After committing the murders, she may have gone into her room
and been unexpectedly enclosed by the flames; or the whole may
have been previously planned, in order to give her the plea of
this very dangerous situation, as a proof of innocence. Such
immaterial circumstances were not to overshadow the very material
facts on which the prosecution rested.

Another important question was to be asked by the jury. If
Mary Monson did not commit these crimes, who did? It had
been suggested that the house might have taken fire by accident,
and that the ploughshare was the real cause of the death of its
owners. If this were so, did the ploughshare remove the money?

— did the ploughshare put the notched piece in Mary Monson's
purse?

Such is an outline of the manner in which the District Attorney
reasoned on the facts. His summing up made a deep impression;
the moderation of the manner in which he pressed the
guilt of the accused, telling strongly against her. Nothing was
said of aristocracy, or harps, or manners, or of anything else that
did not fairly belong to the subject. A great deal more was said,
of course; but we do not conceive it necessary to advert to it.

The charge was exceedingly impartial. The judge made a full
exposition of all the testimony, pointed out its legitimate bearing,
and dissected its weak points. As for the opinion of McBrain
and his associates, the court conceived it entitled to a great deal
of consideration. Here were several highly respectable professional
men testifying that, in their judgment, both the skeletons were
those of females. The German woman was missing. What had
become of her? In any case, the disappearance of that woman
was very important. She may have committed the crimes, and
absconded; or one of the skeletons may have been hers. It was
in evidence that Peter Goodwin and his wife did not live always
in the most happy mood; and he may have laid hands on the
money, which was probably his in the eyes of the law, and left
the place. He had not been seen since the fire. The jury must
take all the facts into their consideration, and decide according
to their consciences.

This charge was deemed rather favourable to the accused than
otherwise. The humanity of the judge was conspicuous throughout;
and he leaned quite obviously to Dunscomb's manner of
treating the danger of Mary Monson from the flames, and dwelt
on the fact that the piece of money was not sufficiently watched
to make out an absolute case of identity. When he had done,
the impression was very general that the prisoner would be acquitted.

As it was reasonably supposed that a case of this importance
would detain the jury a considerable time, the court permitted
the prisoner to withdraw. She left the place, attended by her
two friends; the latter in tears, while Mary herself was still
seemingly unmoved. The thoughtful Mrs. Gott had prepared
refreshments for her; and, for the first time since her trial commenced,
the fair prisoner ate heartily.

“I shall owe my triumph, not to money, my dear girls,” she
said, while at table, “not to friends, nor to a great array of counsel;
but to truth. I did not commit these crimes; and on the
testimony of the State alone, with scarcely any of my own, the
jury will have to say as much. No stain will rest on my character,
and I can meet my friends with the unclouded brow of innocence.
This is a very precious moment to me; I would not part
with it for all the honours that riches and rank can bestow.”

“How strange that you, of all women, my dear mamma,” said
Anna, kissing her cheek, “should be accused of crimes so horrible
to obtain a little money; for this poor Mrs. Goodwin could
have had no great sum after all, and you are so rich!”

“More is the pity that I have not made a better use of my
money. You are to be envied, girls, in having the fortunes of
gentlewomen, and in having no more. I do believe it is better
for our sex barely to be independent in their respective stations,
and not to be rendered rich. Man or woman, money is a dangerous
thing, when we come to consider it as a part of our natural
existence; for it tempts us to fancy that money's worth gives
rights that nature and reason both deny. I believe I should
have been much happier, were I much poorer than I am.”

“But those who are rich are not very likely to rob!”

“Certainly not, in the sense that you mean, my dear. Send
Marie Moulin on some errand, Anna; I wish to tell you and
Sarah what I think of this fire, and of the deaths for which I
am now on trial.”

Anna complied; and the handsome prisoner, first looking cautiously
around to make certain she was not overheard, proceeded
with her opinion.

“In the first place, I make no doubt Dr. McBrain is right,
and that both the skeletons are those of women. The German
woman got to be very intimate with Mrs. Goodwin; and as the
latter and her husband quarrelled daily, and fiercely, I think it
probable that she took this woman into her bed, where they
perished together. I should think the fire purely accidental,
were it not for the missing stocking.”

“That is just what the District Attorney said,” cried Anna,
innocently. “Who, then, can have set the house on fire?”

Mary Monson muttered to herself; and she smiled as if some
queer fancies crowded her brain; but no one was the wiser
for her ruminations. These she kept to herself, and continued.

“Yes, that missing stocking renders the arson probable. The
question is, who did the deed; I, or Mrs. Burton?”

“Mrs. Burton!” exclaimed both the girls in a breath. “Why,
her character is excellent—no one has ever suspected her! You
cannot suppose that she is the guilty person!”

“It is she, or it is I; which, I will leave you to judge. I
was aware that the notch was in the coin; for I was about to
give the other piece to Mrs. Goodwin, but preferred to keep the
perfect specimen myself. The notched piece must have been in
the stocking until after the fire; and it was changed by some
one while my purse was under examination.”

“And you suppose that Mrs. Burton did it?”

“I confess to a suspicion to that effect. Who else could or
would have done it? I have mentioned this distrust to Mr.
Dunscomb, and he cross-examined in reference to this fact; though
nothing very satisfactory was extracted. After my acquittal, steps
will be taken to push the inquiry further.”

Mary Monson continued discussing this subject for quite an
hour; her wondering companions putting questions. At the end
of that time, Mr. Gott appeared to say that the jury had come
into court; and that it was his duty to take the prisoner there
to meet them.

Perhaps Mary Monson never looked more lovely than at that
moment. She had dressed herself with great simplicity, but
with exceeding care; excitement gave her the richest colour;
hope, even delight, was glowing in her eyes; and her whole form
was expanding with the sentiment of triumph. There is no feeling
more general than sympathy with success. After the judge's
charge, few doubted of the result; and on every side, as she
walked with a light firm step to her chair, the prisoner read kindness,
sympathy, and exultation. After all that had been said,
and all the prejudices that had been awakened, Mary Monson
was about to be acquitted! Even the reporters became a little
humanized; had juster perceptions than common of the rights
of their fellow-creatures; and a more smiling, benignant assembly
was never collected in that hall. In a few minutes, silence
was obtained, and the jurors were called. Every man answered
to his name, when the profound stillness of expectation pervaded
the place.

“Stand up, Mary Monson, and listen to the verdict,” said the
clerk, not without a little tremor in his voice. “Gentlemen,
what do you say — is the prisoner guilty or not guilty?”

The foreman arose, stroked down a few scattering grey hairs,
then, in a voice barely audible, he pronounced the portentous
word “guilty.” Had a bomb suddenly exploded in the room, it
could not have produced greater astonishment, and scarcely more
consternation. Anna Updyke darted forward, and, as with a
single bound, Mary Monson was folded in her arms.

“No, no!” cried this warm-hearted girl, totally unconscious
of the impropriety of her acts; “she is not guilty. You do not

know her. I do. She was my school mamma. She is a lady,
incapable of being guilty of such crimes. No, no, gentlemen,
you will think better of this, and alter your verdict — perhaps it
was a mistake, and you meant to say, `not guilty!' ”

“Who is this young lady?” asked the judge, in a tremulous
voice — “a relative of the prisoner's?”

“No, sir,” answered the excited girl, “no relative, but a very
close friend. She was my `school mamma' once, and I know
she is not a person to rob, and murder, and set fire to houses.
Her birth, education, character, all place her above it. You will
think better of this, gentlemen, and change your verdict. Now,
go at once and do it, or you may distress her!”

“Does any one know who this young lady is?” demanded his
honour, his voice growing more and more tremulous.

“I am Anna Updyke — Dr. McBrain's daughter, now, and
uncle Tom's niece,” answered Anna, scarce knowing what she
said. “But never mind me — it is Mary Monson, here, who has
been tried, and who has so wrongfully been found guilty. She
never committed these crimes, I tell you, sir — is incapable of
committing them — had no motive for committing them; and I
beg you will put a stop to these proceedings, before they get so
far as to make it difficult to recede. Just tell the jury to alter
their verdict. No, no, Mary Monson is no murderess! She
would no more hurt the Goodwins, or touch a particle of their
gold, than either of us all. You do not know her, sir. If you
did, you would smile at this mistake of the jury, for it is all a
cruel mistake. Now do, my dear sir, send them away, again,
and tell them to be more reasonable.”

“The young lady had better be removed,” interposed the
judge, wiping his eyes. “Such scenes may be natural, and the
court looks on them leniently; but time is precious, and my duty
renders it necessary to interpose my authority to maintain the
order of our proceedings. Let some of the ladies remove the

young lady; she is too delicate for the touch of a constable —
but time is precious.”

The judge was not precisely conscious, himself, of what he
was saying, though he knew the general drift of his remarks.
The process of blowing his nose interrupted his speech, more
than once, and Anna was removed by the assistance of Marie
Moulin, Sarah Wilmeter, and good Mrs. Gott; the latter sobbing
like a child, while the other two scarce realized the consequences
of the momentous word that had just been pronounced. Dunscomb
took care that the whole group should quit the building,
and be removed to the tavern.

If the bar, and the spectators in general, had been surprised
at the calmness of exterior maintained by the prisoner, previously
to the verdict, their wonder was sensibly increased by the manner
which succeeded it. Mary Monson's beauty shone with increasing
radiance as the justice of her country seemed to threaten her
existence more and more; and at the particular moment when
she was left alone, by the withdrawal of her female companions,
many present fancied that she had increased in stature. Certainly,
it was a rare sight to observe the illuminated countenance,
the erect mien, and the offended air, with which one of the
weaker sex, and one so youthful and charming, met a doom so
terrible. Of the jury, she took no notice. Her eye was on the
judge, who was endeavouring to muster sufficient fortitude to
pronounce the final decision of the law.

“Before the court pronounces sentence, Mr. Dunscomb,” observed
that functionary, “it will cheerfully hear anything you
may have to offer in behalf of the prisoner, or it will hear the
prisoner herself. It is better, on every account, that all my
painful duties be discharged at once, in order that the prisoner
may turn her attention to the only two sources of mercy that
now remain open to her — the earthly and the heavenly. My
duty, as you well know, cannot now be avoided; and the sooner

it is performed, perhaps, the better for all concerned. It shall
be my care to see that the condemned has time to make all her
appeals, let them be to the authorities here, or to the more
dreaded power above.

“I am taken so much by surprise, your honour, at a verdict
that, to say the least, is given on very doubtful testimony, that I
hardly know what to urge. As the court, however, is disposed
to indulgence, and there will be time to look at the law of the
case, as well as to address our petitions and affidavits to the authority
at Albany, I shall interpose no objection; and, as your
honour well remarks, since the painful duty must be discharged,
it were better, perhaps, that it were discharged now.”

“Prisoner at the bar,” resumed the judge, “you have heard
the finding of the jury, in your case. A verdict of `guilty' has
been rendered, and it has become my painful duty to pronounce
the awful sentence of the law. If you have anything to say previously
to this, the last and most painful of all my duties, the
court will give your words a kind and lenient hearing.”

In the midst of a stillness that seemed supernatural, the sweet,
melodious voice of Mary Monson was heard, “first gentle, almost
inaudible,” but gathering strength as she proceeded, until it became
clear, distinct, and silvery. There are few things that impart
a higher charm than the voice; and the extraordinary prisoner
possessed an organ which, while it was feminine and sweet,
had a depth and richness that at once denoted her power in song.
On the present occasion, it was not even tremulous.

“I believe I understand you, sir,” Mary Monson commenced.
“I have been tried and found guilty of having murdered Peter
and Dorothy Goodwin, after having robbed them, and then of
setting fire to the house.”

“You have been tried for the murder of Peter Goodwin, only,
the indictments for the second murder, and for the arson, not
having yet been tried. The court has been obliged to separate

the cases, lest the law be defeated on mere technicalities. This
verdict renders further proceedings unnecessary, and the two remaining
indictments will probably never be traversed.”

“I believe I still understand you, sir; and I think you sincerely
for the kind manner in which you have communicated
these facts, as well as for the consideration and gentleness you
have manifested throughout these proceedings. It has been very
kind in you, sir; and whatever may come of this, God will remember
and reward you for it.”

“The court will hear you, Mary Monson, if you have anything
to say, before sentence be passed.”

“Perhaps I might say and do much to affect your decision,
sir,” returned the prisoner, leaning her fair brow, for a moment,
on her hand, “but there would be little satisfaction in it. It
was my wish to be acquitted on the testimony of the State. I
did hope that this jury would not have seen the proofs of guilt,
in the evidence that has been brought against me; and I confess
there would be very little satisfaction to me in any other acquittal.
As I understand the case, should I be acquitted as respects
Peter Goodwin, I must still be tried as respects his wife; and
lastly, for setting fire to the house.”

“You are not acquitted of the murder of Peter Goodwin,”
mildly interposed the judge; “the finding of the court has been
just to the contrary.”

“I am aware of this, sir. America has many enemies. I
have lived in foreign lands, and know this from near and long
observation. There are those, and those, too, who are in power,
that would gladly see the great example in prosperity, peace and
order, that this country has hitherto given to the world, beaten
down by our own vices, and the mistaken uses to which the people
put the blessings of Divine Providence. I do not reverence
the justice of my country, as I did: it is impossible that I should
do so. I now see plainly that its agents are not all of the character

they should be; and that, so far from Justice's being
blind through her impartiality alone, she is also blind through
her ignorance. Why am I found guilty of this act? On what
evidence — or even on what probability? The whole of the
proof is connected with that piece of money. Mrs. Burton has
testified that Mrs. Goodwin, herself, admitted that I had given
her that coin — just what I told the coroner, and which I then
saw was not believed, for it has been my misfortune to be tried
by strangers. Will these gentlemen ask themselves why I have
committed the crime of which they have found me guilty? It
could not be for money; as of that I have, of my own, more than
I want, more, perhaps, than it is good for me to be mistress of.”

“Why have not these facts been shown to the jury, at the
proper time and in the proper manner, if true?” demanded the
judge, kindly. “They are material, and might have influenced
the verdict.”

The jury was discharged, but not one of them all had left the
box. One or two of them now arose, and looks of doubt and
indecision began to flicker over their countenances. They had
been influenced by one man, a friend and political confidant of
Williams, who had led the undecided to his own opinions. We
do not mean to say that this man was perjured, or that he was
himself conscious of the extent of the wrong he was doing; but
his mind had been perverted by the serpent-like report, and he
had tried the cause under the influence of rumours, which had
no foundation in truth. The case was one of honest doubt, as
no one will deny; but instead of giving the accused the benefit
of this doubt, as by law and in reason he was bound to do, he had
taken a bias altogether from outside influences, and that bias he
communicated to others, until by the sheer force of numbers, the
few who wavered were driven into a corner, and soon capitulated.
Then, there was a morbid satisfaction in the minds of several of
the jurors, in running counter to the charge of the judge. This

was a species of independence that is grateful to some men, and
they are guided by their vanity, when they fancy they are only
led by conscience. These malign influences were unknown to
themselves; for not one of the twelve was absolutely corrupt, but
neither of them all was qualified by nature, or education, to be a
judge, freed from the influence of the bench, in a case affecting
a human life.

Any one in the least observant of what is going on around
him, must have had many opportunities of perceiving how
strangely juries render their verdicts, and how much the last appear
to be opposed to the inferences of the looker-on, as well as
to the expressed opinions of the courts. The falling off in the
power of the judges over the minds of the jurors, we suppose to
be derived from a combination of causes. The tendency of the
times is to make men confident in their own judgments, and to
defer less than formerly to knowledge and experience. Seeing
this very general trait, the judges themselves defer to the tendency,
manifest less confidence in their station and knowledge,
and perhaps really feel it; while the unceasing cry of the infallibility
of the common mind, induces the vulgar, or average intellect,
to shrink from any collision with that which wears the semblance,
even though simulated, of the popular will. In this way
is the institution of the jury gradually getting to be perverted,
rendering that which is safe as an human tribunal can well be,
when under the guidance of the court, as dangerous as ignorance,
party, self-will and obstinacy can well make it.

“I do not know,” resumed Mary Monson, “that one is yet
obliged, in America, to lay open her account-books, and show
her rent-roll, or her bonds and mortgages, in order to avoid the
gallows. I have been told that crime must be brought home by
unanswerable proof, in order to convict. Who can say that such
proof has been adduced in my case? It has not even been made
certain that a man was killed, at all. Most respectable witnesses

have testified that they believe those revolting remains of poor
humanity, belonged once to women. Nor has it been shown
that any one has been murdered. The fire may have been accidental,
the deaths a simple consequence of the fire, and no one
guilty.”

“You forget, Mary Monson,” interposed the judge, mildly,
“that the robbery, and the piece of money found in your purse,
give a colour to the supposition of crime. The jury have doubtless
been influenced by these facts, and important facts they are.
No one can deny this; and I think you overlook that feature of
your case. If, however, your counsel has any good reason to
offer why sentence should not now be pronounced, the court will
hear it. There is no impatience on the part of justice, which
would much rather draw in than stretch forth its arm. Perhaps,
Mary Monson, you might do well to leave to your counsel the
objections you wish to urge, and let them be presented to us in
a form that we can recognise.”

“I see no great use in deferring the sentence,” Dunscomb
remarked, quietly enough for the circumstances. “It must be
pronounced; and any question of law, should one occur to my
mind, though I confess none does at present, can as well be
raised after this ceremony as before.”

“I am disposed to wait, if a good reason can be urged for the
delay. I will acknowledge that the case is one involved in a
great deal of doubt and uncertainty, and am much inclined to do
all the law will sanction. Still, I leave you to decide on your
own course.”

“In my judgment, may it please your honour, we shall have
to go to the executive, and it were, perhaps, better to get all the
most revolting parts of the case over, while the accused—”

“Convicted, Mr. Dunscomb — it is a distinction painful to
make, but one that cannot now be avoided.”

“I beg pardon of the court — convicted.”

“Yes,” said Mary Monson, solemnly, “I am convicted, and
of the revolting crime of murder. All my hopes of a triumphant
acquittal are blasted; and, whatever may be the termination of
this extraordinary affair, a dark spot will always rest on my name.
Sir, I am as innocent of this crime as the youngest child in your
county. I may have been wilful, perverse, ill-judging, unwise,
and have a hundred other failings; but neither Peter nor Dorothy
Goodwin did I ever harm. I had not been long in the house
before I discovered that the old couple were not happy together.
They quarrelled often, and bitterly. The wife was managing,
dictatorial, and sordidly covetous, while he used every shilling
he could obtain, for the purchase of liquors. His mind was affected
by his debauches, and he drivelled. In this state, he
came to me for sympathy and advice. There were passages in
my own past life, short as it has been, which disposed me to feel
for one who was not happy in the married state. It is no matter
what my own experience has been; I had sympathy for that
poor man. So far from wishing to do him harm, I desired to do
him good. I advised him to quit the house, and live apart from
his wife, for a time, at least; and this he consented to do, if I
would furnish him with the means. Those means I promised;
and, that he might not suffer, being of only feeble intellect, and
in order to keep him from liquor, I had directed two of my agents
to come to the house early in the morning of the very day that
the fire happened, that they might convey Peter Goodwin to
another residence, where he would be secret and safe, until his
wife might repent of her treatment of him. It was fortunate for
me that I had done this. Those two men, servants of my own,
in the dress of countrymen, were the instruments of saving my
life; without their aid, I should have perished in the flames.
What they did, and how they did it, it would be premature now
to say. Alas! alas! I have not been acquitted as I desired to
be, and a dark shadow will for ever rest on my name!”

For the first time, a doubt of the sanity of the prisoner, crossed
the mind of the judge. It was not so much the incoherence of
her language, as her eye, the flushed cheek, and a certain air of
stealthy cunning, that awakened this distrust. Nevertheless,
Mary Monson's manner was sincere, her language chosen and
perfectly proper, and her explanations not without their force.
There was something so strange, however, in a portion of her
statements; so irreconcileable with a sound discretion, that, taken
with the little which had come to light concerning this singular
woman's past life, the doubt arose.

“Perhaps it were better, Mr. District Attorney,” the judge
observed, “if we delay the sentence.”

“As your honour may think fit. The state is not over-anxious
for life.”

“What say you, Mr. Dunscomb — shall there be delay, or
shall I sentence?”

“As the sentence must come, the sooner it is over, the better.
We have no ground on which to carry up the case, the jury
being judges of the facts. Our principal hope must be in the
discretion of the governor.”

“Mary Monson,” continued the judge, evidently treating the
affair as purely a matter of form, “you have been tried for feloniously
depriving Peter Goodwin of his life—”

“I never did it,” interrupted the prisoner, in a voice so low
as to be melodious, yet so clear as to be audible as the sound of
a clarion. “These men have been influenced by the rumours
they have heard, and were not fit to act as my judges. Men
should have minds superior to mere reports, to sit in that box.”

“My duty is to pronounce the sentence of the law. After a
fair trial, and, so far as it appears to us, by an impartial jury,
you have been found guilty. For reasons that are of sufficient
weight to my mind, I shall not dwell on the character of the
awful change you will have to undergo, should this decree be put

in force, but confine myself simply to the duty of pronouncing
the sentence of the law, which is this: that you be carried back
to the gaol, and there be guarded, until Friday, the sixth day of
September next, when between the hours of twelve and two,
P. M., you be carried to the place of execution, and hanged by
the neck, until you are dead — and God have mercy on your
soul!”

A shudder passed through the audience, at hearing language
like this applied to a person of Mary Monson's appearance, education
and sex. This feeling might have manifested itself more
strongly, had not Mrs. Horton attracted attention to herself, by
forcing her way through the crowd, until she stood within the
bar. Here the good woman, accustomed to bandy words with
her guests, did not scruple to make her presence known to the
court, by calling out —

“They tell me, your honour, that Mary Monson has just been
found guilty of the murder of Peter Goodwin?”

“It is so, my good woman — but that case is ended. Mr.
Sheriff, remove the prisoner — time is precious—”

“Yes, your honour, and so is eternity. Mary Monson is no
more guilty of taking the life of Peter Goodwin than I am guilty.
I've always said some great disgrace would befall our juries, one
of these days, and now my prophecy will come true. Duke's is
disgraced. Constable, let that poor man come within the bar.”

The drivelling creature who entered the room of McBrain
tottered forward, when twenty voices cried aloud the name of
“Peter Goodwin!” Every word that Mary Monson had stated,
was true!