University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE TRIAL.

The magistral investigation resulted in the discharge of
all the family but Chilion, who was committed to answer
before the Supreme Court—a stated session of which was
at hand. The testimony of the witnesses was varied and
confused, as their observation had been uncertain and indistinct.
What with the trepidation of the moment, and the
clouded condition in which the catastrophe found the party,
it took no small sagacity and patience in Esq. Beach, who
seemed disposed to conduct the case with entire candor, to
distinguish, resolve, and average the singular materials that
were submitted to his attention. Chilion himself would
make neither confession nor denial.

These points, however, were ascertained: that Solomon
Smith came to his death by a wound in the jugular vein;
that the wound was caused by some violent blow, as, say, of
a file; that Chilion was seen to throw the file, and the deceased
was heard to cry out the moment the instrument
might have been supposed to strike him. Furthermore,
it was sworn that Chilion and the deceased had had differences,
and that Chilion had threatened vengeance for the
mischief Solomon was doing to the family at the Pond.

The deceased was buried the next day, and at his funeral
was exhibited every circumstance of solemn array and
mournful impressiveness. The body was carried to the
Church, where Parson Welles preached an appropriate

sermon, and followed to the grave by a long train of people
swayed by alternate and mingled grief and indignation.

On the succeeding day, Mr. Smith, the father of Solomon,
came to the Pond claiming the forfeiture of the conditions
on which Pluck held the estate, and ordered the immediate
removal of the family. Pluck went off with his kit on his
back to seek employment wherever it should offer. Hash
and his mother were invited to Sibyl Radney's. Of Nimrod
and Rose nothing had been heard. Bull followed Hash.
Margaret barely had time to turn her two birds and Dick,
the squirrel, out of doors, and gather a bundle of clothes
and Chilion's violin, ere Mr. Smith nailed up the house.
She besought her mother and Hash to take the birds and
squirrel, but the hurry, preoccupation and irritation of the
moment were too great to pamper wishes of that sort.
Up the Via Salutaris she saw her father and mother,
her brother and Sibyl filing along, drearily, with heavy
packs on their shoulders. Her own course had been
resolved upon; she was going to Esq. Beach's to seek
occupation, be near Chilion, and fulfil her engagement
as Governess. She paused a moment, looking up and down
the road, and back to Mons Christi, then striking across the
Mowing, buried herself in the thickets of the Via Dolorosa.
Reaching the Village, she turned into Grove Street, and
went directly to the Squire's. Mrs. Beach received her at
the door, and asked her into the parlor. She was barely
seated, when the door opened, and in poured a parcel of
children.

“Julia, William,” said Mrs. Beach, “why do you behave
so? How often have I told you not to come into the
house with a noise? and those other boys havn't scraped
their feet.”

“I have got a tame squirrel here, Ma,” said William
Beach.

“What are you doing with that dirty thing?” exclaimed
Mrs. Beach.

“It's the Ma'am's,” said Julia Beach; “Arthur said it
was.”

“We found it trying to get in at the door,” explained
Arthur Morgridge.

“She isn't your Ma'am, now,” denied Mrs. Beach.

“Isn't she going to live here, and teach us?” asked
Julia.

“Not as we know of,” replied the mother. “You take
away the squirrel, and run to your plays.”

Dick, meanwhile, wrested himself from the hands of the
boys and leaped into the lap of his mistress.

“Take the creature away,” reiterated Mrs. Beach.

Margaret interceded in behalf of her pet. “I shan't touch
it, if the Ma'am wants to keep it,” said Consider Gisborne.
“Come, let us see if we can't get the kite up.”

The children retreated with as much impetuosity as they
entered.

“Did you expect to bring that animal with you?” asked
Mrs. Beach.

“I know not how he came,” replied Margaret; “I left
him at home;” and she might have added, that delaying
on her steps two or three hours in the woods, the squirrel,
shut out of doors, and growing tired of silence and solitude,
concluded to follow her,—a trick he had more than once in
his life attempted.

“What have you in that green sack?” inquired the
lady.

“It is my brother Chilion's fiddle,” replied Margaret;

“I thought it would be of some comfort to him in the jail,
so I brought it down.”

“Your brother, indeed!” rejoined Mrs. Beach. “I
must inform you that the Squire and myself have concluded
to dispense with your services. We thought it would be
extremely bad to have one of your family a member of
ours. Since the dreadful things that have happened at
your house, it would be unsafe to our property; and perhaps
to our lives, and certainly detrimental to the morals of the
children, to have any thing to do with you. And it would
be wrong not to break a promise made with those who have
proved themselves unworthy to keep it.”

“What shall I do?” asked Margaret, passionately.

“It is no use to practise dissimulation, Miss Hart. A
sorry crew of you! I quite wonder that you should have
had the presumption to come at all. We were going to
send word that we did not want you. But your anxiety
for your brother, it seems, has brought you down even
sooner than was anticipated. If worse comes to worst, you
can go to the poorhouse; you may be able to find employment
with that class of people to whom you properly belong.
I am not unreasonable—for the time has arrived we
must no longer tamper with low-bred and mischief-making
characters.”

The appearance of the lady discouraged parley and silenced
protestation, and Margaret withdrew. She stood on
the doorsteps, with her bundle and squirrel in her arms,
disordered in purpose, palsied in feeling, and almost blind
in vision, from this unforeseen turn of affairs. The children,
who were trying to fly a kite on the grounds in front
of the house, came around her.

“Are you not going to stay?” asked Julia Beach.

“No,” replied Margaret.

“Won't the Ma'am help us get up the kite?” said Consider
Gisborne.

“Yes,” replied Margaret.

“The string is all in a snarl,” said Arthur Morgridge.
Margaret, most mechanically, most mournfully, fell to getting
out the knot, and then dropping her luggage, ran with
the string, and when the kite was fairly afloat, she handed
it back to the boys.

“She's crying,” said Julia Beach. “She is crying!”
was whispered from one to another. The kite was at once
abandoned, and the children huddled about their disconsolate
Mistress.

“What makes you cry?” said Julia.

“I cannot tell,” said Margaret; “I have no home, no
friends, no place to go to.”

“Never mind the kite,” said Consider. “I'll carry this,”
he added, seizing the sack containing the violin; “I don't
care if she did put me on the girl's side, she is the best
Schoolma'am I ever went to.”

“I will carry this,” said Arthur, taking the clothes bundle
from her hand.

“I want to have the squirrel,” said Julia.

“Let me take hold with you, Arthur,” said Mabel
Weeks.

“Where are you going?” asked Margaret.

“I don't know,” said Consider; “we wanted to help the
Schoolma'am.”

“I am going to take the violin to my brother, who is in
the jail; he loves to play on it. Perhaps you wouldn't
like to go there.”

“Deacon Ramsdill was at our house, and said he didn't
believe he meant to kill Solomon Smith,” said Consider.

“I remember what you said when you kept the school
that we musn't hate any body,” said Arthur.

“Ma said people wasn't always wicked that was put in
jail,” said Mabel.

Preceded by the children with their several loads, Margaret
went towards the Green. Approaching the precincts
of the jail she found her way impeded by large numbers of
people, who were loitering about the spot, of all ages and
sexes. She was greeted with sundry exclamations of dislike,
and the aspect of things was not the most inviting.
Even threatening words were bestowed upon her, and some
went so far as to jostle her steps. She stopped while the
children gathered closer to her, and they all proceeded in
a solid body together.

“I can see the devil in her eye,” said one. “The
whole family ought to be hung,” said another. “Poor
Mr. Smith's heart is most broke,” said Mistress Joy.
“I always knew Chil would come to a bad end,” said
Mistress Hatch; “there were spots on his back when
he was born, and his mother cut his finger nails before
he was a month old.” “There was a looking-glass
broke at our house, the week before,” said Mistress Tuck.
“I had a curious itching in my left eye,” said Mistress
Tapley, “and our Dorothy dropped three drops of blood
from her nose.” “There was a great noise of drums and
rattling of arms in the air, just before the Spanish war
broke out,” said old Mr. Ravel. “The Saco River run
blood when the last war begun,” said Captain Hoag; “I
was down in the Province and saw it.” “He beat his head
all to smash with a froe,” said one boy. “They are the
most dangerous wretches that ever walked God's earth,”
said Mr. Cutts.

Coming to the porch of the jail-house, Margaret took the

baggage into her own hands, dismissed her guard, and
sought of Mr. Shooks admission to Chilion's cell. The
reply of that gentleman was brief and explicit. “Troop!
gump,” said he, “don't hang sogering about here, you
saucebox. Haven't you smelt of these premises enough?
It will be your turn next. Pack and be off.” She turned
from the door. A hundred people stood before her; she
encountered the gaze of a hundred pairs of eyes, dark and
frowning; Mr. Shooks, by the application of his hand to
her shoulder, helped her from the steps to the ground,
where she seemed almost to lose the power of motion.
“What do you ax for that are beast?” inquired one.
“That's Chil's fiddle she's got there in that bag,” said Zenas
Joy. “That'll help pay for what the dum Injins owe
daddy,” said Seth Penrose. “Come, you may as well give
it up.”

“You shan't touch it,” outspoke Judah Weeks. “I'll
stand here, and if any body wants to put his tricks on her,
he'll have to play rough and tumble with me a while first.
She ain't to blame for what her brother did.” While he
was speaking, Sibyl Radney, stout as an Amazon, brawny
as Vulcan, elbowed herself into the midst, and seizing the
bundle under one arm and Margaret under the other, bore
her off through the crowd. Sundry boys still saw fit to
follow, who again closed about Sibyl when she stopped
with her load. “There is Deacon Ramsdill,” shouted one.
“We'll have some fun out of him if we can't out of the Injin,”
cried another.

“Well, my lads,” said the Deacon, limping in among
them with his insenescible smile, “what have we here?
You must truss up a cow's tail if you don't want to be
switched when you're milking; if there is any mischief here
we must attend to it. Come, Molly, you must go with me.

Out of the way, children; a cat may look upon a king; I
guess you will let a squirrel look at you.—There, Molly,”
continued the Deacon, leading her across the Green into
the East Street, “we have got through the worst of it, and
we praise a bridge that carries us safe, even if it is a poor
one.”

“I thank you, Sir, I thank you,” said Margaret; “but,
O, let me die, let the boys kill me.”

“Dogs that bark arter a wagon,” replied the Deacon,
“keep out of the way of the whip; I guess the boys wouldn't
hurt you much. The people are a good deal up, and when
the grain is weedy we must reap high, we must do the best
we can. I have seen Judge Morgridge, and he thinks you
will be safest at my house; Squire Beach says he can't
employ you, and I think you had better go home with me.
The Judge says his Susan wants to see you, and it wouldn't
be best for you to go to his house now, because he is Judge.
Freelove will be glad to see you. When you was at our
house before, you was gone so much you didn't hardly give
her a taste.”

“There is nothing left to me,” said Margaret; “I am
blank despair.”

“The finer the curd the better the cheese,” replied the
Deacon. “They are cutting you up considerably smart,
but it may be as well in the end. What you are going
through is nothing to what I saw down to Arcady, when
we went to bring off the French under Col. Winslow. We
dragged them out of their houses, tore children from their
mothers, wives from their husbands, and piled them helter-skelter
in the boats. Then we set fire to every thing that
would kindle; burnt up houses, barns, crops, meetinghouses.
They stuck to their old homes like good fellows.
One boy we saw running off with his mother on his back,

into the woods, and we had to bring him down with a bullet
before he would stop. We took off nigh eighteen thousand
of them. When we weighed anchor, their homes were
in ashes, their woods all a-fire, and the black smoke hung
over the whole so funeral-like—they set up such a dismal
yell as if the whole airth was going to a butchery—yours
an't a feather to it, Molly.”

“How could you do such things!” exclaimed Margaret.

“O, they was Papists and French. It was political, I
believe; I don't know much about it. Here is our house,
and the fifty acres of land I got for that job. It has lain
powerful hard on my conscience; I have struggled agin it.
—I don't know as I should ever have got the better of it,
if the Lord hadn't a come and forgiven me.”

“Freelove,” he said, as he entered his house, “I have
found the gal. She will pine away like a sick sheep if we
don't nuss and cosset her up a little.”

The Deacon's, to which Margaret was not altogether a
stranger, was a small, one-story, brown house, having a
garden on one side, a grass lot on the other, and a cornfield
in the rear. Over the front door trailed a luxuriant woodbine,
now dyed by the frosts into a dark claret. What with
the grant of land, a small pension continued until the Revolution,
the Deacon, maugre his lameness, had secured a
comfortable livelihood for himself and wife, which was the
extent of his family. The usual garnish of pewter appeared
in one corner of the room into which Margaret was led; in
the other stood a circular snap-table; between the two hung
a black-framed looking-glass supported on brass knobs,
blazoned with miniature portraits; underneath the glass
was a japanned comb-case, and a cushion bristling with pins
and needles. On one wall ticked a clock without a case, its
weights dangling to the floor. Against the opposite wall

was a turn-up bed; over the fireplace were pipes suspended
by their throats, and iron candlesticks hanging by their
ears. There was a settle in the room, an oval-back arm-chair
which the Deacon occupied, while his wife, in mob-cap and
iron-rimmed bridge spectacles, sat knitting in a low flag-bottomed
chair by the chimney corner. The Deacon brought
from the parlor, or rather spare bedroom, a stuffed easy-chair
that he gave to Margaret. For dinner, Mistress
Ramsdill prepared tea for their sorrowful visitor, which she
poured from a small, bluish, gold-flowered, swan-shaped
china pot, into cups of similar material, and the Deacon
roasted her apples with his own hands, both insisting that
she should eat something, to which she seemed in no way
inclined.

“Why do you treat me so much more kindly than other
people?” said Margaret, resuming her seat by the fire.

“I don't know,” replied the Deacon, “except it's nater.
By the grace of God I yielded to nater. I fought agin it
till I was past forty; when what Christ says in what they
call his Sarmon on the Mount, and a colt, brought me to.
I will tell you about the colt. Mr. Stillwater, at the Crown
and Bowl, had one, and he wouldn't budge an inch; and
they banged him, and barnacled him, and starved him, and
the more they did, the more he wouldn't stir, only bob, and
fling, and snort. He was an ear-brisk and high-necked
critter, out of Old Delancy. It kinder seemed to me that
something could be done, and they let me take the colt. I
kept him here in the mow lot, made considerable of him,
groomed him, stroked him, and at last I got him so he
would round and caracol, and follow me like a spoon-fed
lamb; he was as handy as the Judge's bayard; just like
your squirrel there, he is docile as a kitten. I had this nater,
when I was arter the Hurons under General Webb

and it shook my firelock so when I was pulling the trigger
upon a sleeping redskin, I let him go. And when we were
in the ships coming away from Arcady, it made me give up
my bed to a sick French gal, about as old as you, Molly,
and nigh as well-favored; yes, it made me take her up in
my arms, rough, soldier-like as I was, and lay her down in
my hammock, and she thanked me so with her eyes; she
couldn't speak English—”

“What became of her?”

“She had a lover, I believe, in the other vessel, and
when we got to the Bay, it wasn't political to have them
put in one place; he was sent away, and they put her in a
poorhouse, where she fell off in a decline. One of them
old French priests that I helped tear away from the blazing
altar of his church, used to come round hereabouts peddling
wooden spoons, and I declare, it made the tears jump
in these eyes to see him, and nater got the upper hands;
so I gave him lodgings a whole month. I fought agin nater,
I tell you, and a tough spell I had of it. I read in the
good book what Christ said about the blessed ones, and it
wan't me, and Freelove said it wan't her. It went through
us like a bagonet. I was struck under the conviction here
alone one night, when our little Jessie lay in the crib there
by the fire. I looked into her sweet white face as she was
asleep, and knew Christ would have blessed her, and that
she belonged to the kingdom, and it all came over me how
I had slided off from what I was when I was a boy, and that
I had been abusing nater all my life. When Freelove came
in I told her, and she said she felt just so too. I tried to
pray, but nater stood right up before me, and prayed louder
than I did, and I couldn't be heard. The arrows of the
Almighty stuck fast in me. We lay one night on the floor,
fighting, sweating, groaning. We were not quite ready to

give in. We tried to brace up on the notions and politicals,
but nater kept knocking them down. Then the colt came,
then I saw it in old brindle, our cow, and then I saw it in
the sheep, then I remembered the French gal and the Indian;
and at last we gave in, and it was all as plain as a pipe-stem.
When I went out in the morning, I saw it in the
hens and chickens, the calves, the bees, in the rocks, and in
all Creation. There is nater in every body, only if it was
not for their notions and politicals. The Papists, the Negroes,
and the Indians have it. Like father like child.—I
believe we all have the same nater. I have heard Freelove's
grandfather tell—his father told him, he was cousin of
Captain Church, and sarved in the expedition—how, when
they went out after the Pequods, and had killed the men, and
burned the women and boys and gals in their wigwams,
they found one woman who had covered her baby with the
mats and skins, and then spread herself over to keep off the
blazing barks and boughs; and when they raked open the
brands, there was the roasted body of the woman, and under
her the little innocent all alive, and it stretched up its
baby hands—but the soldiers clubbed their firelocks—”

“O, these are dreadful stories; I cannot bear them
now.”

“There is nater agin, Freelove, just as we always told
one another. What is bred in the bone will never be out
of the flesh; it is only kicking agin the pricks, wrastle
with it as hard as you will”

“I can never think of myself again,” said Margaret;
“but my poor brother and Mr. Smith's family—”

“I stuttered up to No. 4 yesterday arter the funeral, but
they are so grown over with rum there, you can hardly tell
what is nater, and what is not. I read out of the Bible to
Mr. Smith's folk, and tried to pray with them, but they

couldn't bear it. That agin is part rum and part nater.
You know, Freelove, how we felt when our Jessie died, we
didn't want to see any one; all their words couldn't put
life into her sweet dead body. I would have gone up to see
you at the Pond, but I can't get round as I used to before
I was hamstrung on the Plains of Abr'am under General
Wolfe. It's dreadful business, this killing people, it's agin
nater; I followed it up a purpose, and have killed a good
many in my day. Christ have marcy! If I had my
desarts, I should have been hung long ago. Rum, too, is
dreadful business, Molly; and I guess it had a good deal
to do with that matter up to your house.”

The Deacon was a great talker, and in modern
parlance might have proved a bore, if his wife had not
jogged him and said, “The gal has not had any sleep for
three nights, and I guess she had better try and see if she
cant get some.” The bed was lowered, and Margaret laid
upon it, where she was quiet, if she did not sleep, most of
the afternoon. In the evening, Susan Morgridge came to
see her. Susan's manner was calm, but her heart was
warm and her sentiments generous. She told Margaret
that nothing had been heard from Mr. Evelyn since his
departure for Europe, and that Isabel Weeks was still at
the Hospital slowly recovering from a long fever that had
succeeded the Small-pox. But the absorbing topic was
Chilion and the death of young Smith. Susan told Margaret
there were some who would do all that could be done
in the case, but that her father apprehended her brother
could not be saved from the extremest penalty of the law.
Margaret replied that the whole affair was to her own mind
enveloped in mystery, that Chilion would reveal nothing to
her, and that she had hardly equanimity enough to give
the subject any cool reflection. Finally, for this seemed

to be a part of her errand, Miss Morgridge proposed that
Margaret should see Esq. Bowker, who she said was a
valued friend of hers, and that he would be happy to do
her any service in his power in the approaching crisis,
and that gratuitously.

The moment the nine o'clock bell spent its last note,
Deacon Ramsdill spread open a large book on his lap, put
glasses on his nose, while his wife deliberately pulled off
her glasses, drew out her needle from the sheath and laid
her knitting carefully aside. “I have got the Bible here,”
said the Deacon, “and we want to pray—that is, if you
can stand it. When you was here in the summer, you
staid out so much we couldn't bring it about. I saw you
once laughing at what was in the Book, and I took it away,
because I knew you wasn't prepared for it, and hadn't got
hold of the right end. Freelove and I have talked this
matter over; and we know how it is with you; we know
how you feel about these things up to the Pond. A hen
frightened from her nest is hard to get back, and you was
handled pretty roughly down here to meeting once. We
musn't give a babe strong meat, the Book says, and nater
says so too; and folks that tend babies musn't have pins
about them. Then agin you can't wean babies in a day;
it takes some time to get them from milk to meat. Praying,
arter all, isn't a hard thing; its nater. I used to pray
when I was a boy, but I left it off in the Wars, and didn't
begin agin till nater got the upper hands once more. I
have seen the Indians pray up among the Hurons, and
they couldn't speak a word of English. It is speaking out
what is inside here, it is sort o' feeling up. It comes easier
as you go along, just as it is with the cows, the more they
are milked the more they give. I hope, Molly, you won't
feel bad about it. 'Tis time to reap when the grain is

shrunk and yellow, and I think you ar'nt much out of the
way of that; and it seems time to pray.”

“I shall not feel bad,” replied Margaret; “you are so
good to me, and I love Christ now, and should be glad to
hear any thing he says.”

The Deacon read from the Gospels, then with his wife
knelt in prayer. Margaret, also, by some sympathetic
or other impulse also bowed herself down,—and for the
first time in her life united in a prayer to the Supreme
Being; and we cannot doubt the effect was salutary on her
feelings. She slept that night in the other front room,
where was the spare bed, with red and blue chintz curtains
over square testers, and a floor neatly bespread with rag
mats. The next morning she expressed great anxiety
about her brother, said she wished either to see him, or
have his violin conveyed to him.

“Things are a good deal stived up,” answered the
Deacon. “People's minds are sour, and I don't know,
Molly, what we can do. It's nater you see, one doesn't
like to have a son killed. Then the politicals are all out of
kelter, one doesn't hardly know his own mind, and all are
afraid of what is in another's. I suppose they won't allow
you to go into the jail, they think you and your brother
would brew mischief together, and perhaps he would break
out. The building is old and slimsy. I am going to the
barber's to be dressed, and I will take the fiddle along with
me, and see how things look. But don't you stir out of the
house; I am scrupulous about what might happen. It is
no use reasoning with the people, any more than with a
horse that is running away.”

The Deacon took the instrument under his surcoat, and
went to the barber's, where the bi-weekly operation of
shaving and powdering was performed. When he was

alone with Tony, he propounded the wish of Margaret; to
which the negro replied that he would do what he could.
The same evening, Tony, with his own and the instrument
of Chilion, presented himself to Mr. Shooks. “You know,”
said he, “that at the last ball, I couldn't play because my
strings were broke, and the Indian is the very best man
this side of York to fix them. And then this gentleman is
learning a new jig, and he wants the Indian to try it with
him.”

“You can't go in,” said Mr. Shooks. “We have got
the rascal chained, and mean to keep him down. There is
no trusting any body now-a-days. All the vagabonds in
the country will rise, and have the government into their
hands the next we know!”

“If Mister Shooks would permit this gentleman to bestow
so much honor on him as to go into the prison, and
take the Indian's fiddle, he would shave Mr. Shooks and
powder him with the most patent new violet, crape and roll
Miss Runy in the most fashionable etiquette, and give her
an Anodyne Necklace, all for nothing, all for the honor of
the thing.”

“You may go in once,” replied Mr. Shooks, “but don't
come again; and Tony,” whispered the vigilant warden,
“see if you can't find out if the villain means to break
jail. I would not lose having him hung for a thousand
pounds.”

Tony being admitted, remained a short time with Chilion,
left the violin, and was summoned away.

The next day Esquire Bowker called on Margaret,
informed her of the usages of Courts, and while he tendered
his professional services in behalf of her brother as Counsellor,
he urged the necessity of a more complete acquaintance

with the case than he then possessed; but Margaret
replied that on all points she was as ignorant as himself.

That night, impatient of delay, anxious to approach
nearer her brother, at a late hour when the streets were
empty, she sallied out, and crossed the Green to the Jail.
Presently she heard the familiar voice of Chilion's music,
proceeding from a low and remote corner of the building.
Climbing a fence, and reaching a spot as near the cell of
her brother as the defences of the place would permit, she
again listened; then in the intervals she made sounds
which she thought might be heard by her brother; but no
token was returned; only she continued to hear low, sad,
anguished notes that pierced her heart with lively distress.
Dick, it appeared, had again followed her; perhaps in the
midst of strangers he could abide her absence with less
composure than ever; and soon she had him in her arms.
He too heard the sound from the prison, the familiar tones
of his Master; it required little urging on the part of Margaret
to send him clambering over the palisade—up the
logs of the building he went and into the cell of Chilion;
presently Margaret heard a changed note, one of recognition
and gladness; soon also the creature came leaping
back to her shoulder. Glad would she have been to leave
him with her brother, but it would be unsafe for him to be
found there; glad was she thus to communicate with the
imprisoned one at all.

A new thought struck her; hastening back to the
Deacon's, on a slip of paper she wrote to her brother, then
returning to the jail, and fastening her billet to the body
of Dick, she renewed her former experiment with success;
she also sent in a pencil and paper for her brother. The
next night pursuing this device, she had the satisfaction not
only of transmitting solace to Chilion, but of receiving messages

from him. This novel species of Independent Mail she
employed the few nights that remained before the trial.
On one point she could draw nothing from her brother—that
of his relation to the homicide. She kept within doors
most of the day, and only ventured abroad under cover of
midnight; she saw little or nothing of her own family; and
heard nothing of Rose and Nimrod.

The day of the dreaded Trial came at last. A true bill
had been found against Chilion, and he stood arraigned
on the charge of murder. Margaret heard the Court-bell
ring, and her own heart vibrated with a more painful
emphasis. Leaving her at the Deacon's, we will go to the
Court-house. The tribunal was organized with Judge
Morgridge at the head of the bench. Chilion was brought
in, his face, never boasting great color or breadth, still paler
and thinner from his confinement, and darkly shaded by a
full head of long black hair. The right of challenge he
showed no inclination to employ, and the panel was formed
without delay.

To the Indictment, charging, that “not having the fear
of God before his eyes, but being moved and seduced by
the instigation of the Devil, feloniously, wilfully, and of his
malice aforethought, he did assault, strike and stab Solomon
Smith, thereby inflicting a mortal wound,” etc., the prisoner
arose and pleaded Not Guilty; then sat down and threw his
head forward on the front of the Box; a position from which
neither the attentions of his Counsel nor any interest of the
Trial could arouse him. The building was thronged with
curious and anxious spectators from Livingston and the
towns about. The examination of witnesses went on.
The substance of the testimony was similar to that given
before the Justice. It bore increasing proofs of a general
belief in the guilt of the prisoner; first impressions had

been corrected by subsequent reflection, doubts moulded
into conviction, and whatever was obscure rendered distinct
and intelligible.

The Counsel for the defence had but little to reply.
Sibyl Radney believed the wound was inflicted by a piece
of broken glass that fell with the table. This could not be.
Esq. Bowker had applied the cross examination; it seemed
to elicit nothing. There was a question as to the intent of
the accused, but the more this matter was pursued the
darker it grew. There were plenty to testify to the utter
malignity of the mind of the prisoner. Was the file thrown
with purpose to kill, or only to injure? That made no difference;
the Court ruling that death in either case was the
same in the eye of the law. In addition to causes operating
in the immediate neighborhood, the newspapers of the
country came in filled with details of a “Shocking and
Brutal Murder in Livingston,” and in one instance, it was
pertinently hinted that “the present afforded another opportunity
for the exercise of Executive Clemency.” Obviously
there was a clear conviction of the guilt of the prisoner in
the public mind, and the testimony before the Court went
far towards establishing the soundness of that feeling.
Night closed the scenes and nearly finished the results of
the trial.

After dark, Margaret, whose sensations during the day
can as well be imagined as described, sought a breathing
place in the open air; she walked towards the Green; but
the shadows of men moving quickly to and fro, and echo of
excited voices, drove her back. As she retreated, she was
stopped by the sound of her own name; Pluck called after
her, evidently moved by other than his ordinary stimulus.

“It is all over with Chilion,” said he, “unless we can get
Judge Morgridge to help us; he can set the Jury right in

his charge, or do something; you must go right up and see
him.”

Margaret, by a cross path, sped her way to the Judge's;
she met Susan at the door, to whom she stated her errand.
Susan sought her father in the library. “No,” replied the
Judge, “let me not see the girl. There are points in the
case I do not understand, but the evidence against the
prisoner is overwhelming.” “O, father,” replied Susan,
“what if she were me, or her brother our Arthur!” “Speak
not, my child, our duties are imperious, our private feelings
are borne away by a higher subserviency. The public
mind is much excited; God knows where it will end, or how
many shall be its victims.” “But, if my dear, dead mother
were her mother, or you were his father!” “Let the girl
not come near me, let me not hear her voice, let not her
agony reach me, leave me to compose myself for the awful
task before me. Go out, go out, my child.”

Stung by this repulse, terrified at the prospect before her,
Margaret passed a sleepless night, and before daybreak she
left the house, and directed her course towards Sibyl
Radney's. She had not gone far when she met people
thronging to the closing scenes of the trial. This diverted
her into the woods, and so delayed her that when she reached
Sibyl's all were gone from there, excepting Bull, who ran
fondly towards her and was caressed with tears. She went
down to the Widow Wright's, whose house was likewise
deserted; and she continued on the Via Salutaris to her own
home. Here were only silence and desolation; one of her
birds she found frozen to death on the door-stone.

Restless, anxious, she returned towards the Village by
the Via Dolorosa. She hung on the skirts of the Green
with an indeterminate feeling of inquisitiveness, awe, and
terror; seating herself on a rock in the Pasture, a chilling

desperation of heart seized her, and with an agitating sense
of the extinguishment of hope her eye became riveted on
the Court-house. Presently she saw persons running towards
that building, which was now an object of public as
well as individual interest. She knew the hour of final
decision had arrived. With a rapid step she descended
the West Street, turned the corner of the Crown and Bowl,
and soon became involved in a crowd of men who were
urging their way into the Court-room.

“The Judge is pulling on the Black Cap,” was reported
from within. “Tight squeezing,” said one, “but your
brother will soon be thankful for as much room to breathe
in I guess.” “Won't you let me pass?” said Margaret.
“We can't get in ourselves,” was the reply. “The Injin's
dog has bit me, I'm killed, I'm murdered,” was an alarm
raised in the rear. “Drub him, knock him in the head,”
was the response; and while the stress relaxed by numbers
breaking away in pursuit of Bull, who had followed his
Mistress, Margaret pressed herself into the porch; wimble-like,
she pierced the stacks of men and women that filled
the hall. “What, are you here, Margery?” exclaimed
Judah Weeks, with an undertone of surprise. “Do help
me if you can,” was the reply. She sprang upon the back
of the prisoner's Box, seized with her hand the balustrade,
and resting her feet on the casement, was supported in her
position by Judah, who folded himself about her. Her
bonnet was torn off, her dress and hair disordered, her face
and eye burned with a preternatural fire. This movement,
done in less time than it can be told, had not the effect to
divert the dense and packed assemblage, who were bending
forward, form, eye and ear, to catch the words of the
sentence, then dropping from the lips of the Judge.
Chilion, who was standing directly before her, with his

head bent down, remained unmoved by what transpired behind
him.

The Judge himself seemed the first to be disturbed by
this vision of affection, anguish and despair that arose like
a suddenly evoked Phantom before his eye. He halted, he
trembled, he proceeded with a stammering vioce—“You
have violated the laws of the land, you have broken the commands
of the Most High God; you have assailed the
person and taken the life of a fellow-being. With malice
aforethought, and wicked passions rife in your breast—”
“No! no!” outshrieked Margaret. “He never intended
to kill him, he never did a wicked thing, he was always
good to us, my dear brother.”—She leaned forwards,
grasped her brother's head and turned his face up to full
view. “Look at him, there is no malice in him; his eye
is gentle as a lamb's; speak, Chilion, and let them hear
your voice, how sweet it is.—Stop! Judge Morgridge,
stop!”—“Order in Court!” cried the Sheriff. “Down
with that girl!” “It's nater, it's sheer nater; just so when
I was down to Arcady,” exclaimed Deacon Ramsdill,
leaping from his seat with a burst of feeling that carried
away all sense of propriety. The Judge faltered; there
was confusion among the people; but the jam was so great
it was impossible for any one to stir, and those in the
vicinity of Margaret who attempted to put into effect the
commands of the Sheriff were resisted by the stubborn and
almost reckless firmness of Judah. But Margaret throwing
herself forward with her arms about the neck of her brother,
became still, as frozen, unearthly despair can be still.

The popular feeling, only for a moment arrested, again
flowed towards the Judge, who, in the midst of a silence,
stark and deep as the grave, went on to finish his address,
and pronounce the final doom of the prisoner. He came

to the closing words—“be carried to the place of execution,
and there be hung by the neck till you are dead, dead,
dead,” when with a sudden convulsive wail, Margaret raised
herself aloft, extended her arms, and with a startling intonation
cried out, “O God, if there be a God! Jesus
Christ! Mother sanctissima! am I on Earth or in Hell!
My poor, murdered brother! Fades the cloud-girt, star
flowering Universe to my eye! I hear the screaming of
Hope, in wild merganser flight to the regions of endless
cold! Love, on Bacchantal drum, beats the march of the
Ages down to eternal perdition! Alecto, Tisiphone,
Furies! Judges bear your flaming Torches; the Beautiful
One brandishes an axe; Serpents hiss on the Green
Cross-tree; the Banners of Redemption float over the woe-resounding,
smoke-ingulphed realms of Tartarus!—” she
relapsed into incoherent ravings, and fell back in the arms
of Judah, who bore her senseless body out through the
gaping and awe-stricken crowd.