Wilson's voice in passionate sobbing, and sore lamentations, which
told him as well as words could do (for she was not within view of
the door, and he did not care to go in), that she was at any rate
partially undeceived as to the hopes he had given her last night.
Sorrowfully did Job return into the body of the court; neither Mrs.
Wilson nor Mary having seen him as he had stood at the witness-room
door.
As soon as he could bring his distracted thoughts to bear upon the
present scene, he perceived that the trial of James Wilson for the
murder of Henry Carson was just commencing. The clerk was gabbling
over the indictment, and in a minute or two there was the accustomed
question, "How say you, Guilty or Not Guilty?"
Although but one answer was expected,--was customary in all
cases,--there was a pause of dead silence, an interval of solemnity
even in this hackneyed part of the proceeding; while the prisoner at
the bar stood with compressed lips, looking at the judge with his
outward eyes, but with far other and different scenes presented to
his mental vision; a sort of rapid recapitulation of his
life,--remembrances of his childhood,--his father (so proud of him,
his first-born child),--his sweet little playfellow, Mary,--his
hopes, his love, his despair,--yet still, yet ever and ever, his
love,--the blank, wide world it had been without her love,--his
mother,--his childless mother,--but not long to be so,--not long to
be away from all she loved,--nor during that time to be oppressed
with doubt as to his innocence, sure and secure of her darling's
heart;--he started from his instant's pause, and said in a low firm
voice
"Not guilty, my lord.
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