“Are those _her_ ribs through which the sun
Did peer, as through a grate;
And is that woman all her crew?
Is that a Death, and are there two?
Is Death that woman’s mate.”
_The Phantom Ship._
After a short preparatory interview with Anna Updyke, Dunscomb repaired
to the gaol, whither he had already despatched a note to announce his
intended visit. Good Mrs. Gott received him with earnest attention; for,
as the day of trial approached, this kind-hearted woman manifested a
warmer and warmer interest in the fate of her prisoner.
“You are welcome, Mr. Dunscomb,” said this well-disposed and gentle
turnkey, as she led the way to the door that opened on the gallery of
the gaol; “and welcome, again and again. I do wish this business may
fall into good hands; and I’m afraid Timms is not getting on with it as
well as he might.”
“My associate has the reputation of being a skilful attorney and a good
manager, Mrs. Gott.”
“So he has, Mr. Dunscomb; but somehow—I scarce know how myself—but
somehow, he doesn’t get along with _this_ cause, as well as I have known
him to get along with others. The excitement in the county is terrible;
and Gott has had seven anonymous letters to let him know that if Mary
Monson escape, his hopes from the public are gone for ever. I tell him
not to mind such contemptible things; but he is frightened half out of
his wits. It takes good courage, ’Squire, to treat an anonymous letter
with the contempt it merits.”
“It sometimes does, indeed. Then you think we shall have up-hill work
with the defence?”
“Dreadful!—I’ve never known a cause so generally tried out of doors as
this. What makes the matter more provoking, Mary Monson might have had
it all her own way, if she had been so minded; for, at first, she was
popularity itself with all the neighbours. Folks nat’rally like beauty,
and elegance, and youth; and Mary has enough of each to make friends
anywhere.”
“What! with the ladies?” said Dunscomb, smiling. “Surely not with your
sex, Mrs. Gott?”
“Yes, with the women, as well as with the men, if she would only use her
means; but she stands in her own light. Crowds have been round the outer
windows to hear her play on the harp—they tell me she uses the real
Jew’s Harp, ’Squire Dunscomb; such as Royal David used to play on; and
that she has great skill. There is a German in the village who knows all
about music, and he says Mary Monson has been excellently taught—by the
very best masters.”
“It is extraordinary; yet it would seem to be so. Will you have the
goodness to open the door, Mrs. Gott?”
“With all my heart,” answered this, in one sense, very singular turnkey,
though in another a very every-day character, jingling her keys, but not
taking a forward step to comply; “Mary Monson expects you. I suppose,
sir, you know that saucy Frank Williams is retained by the friends of
the Goodwins?”
“Mr. Timms has told me as much as that. I cannot say, however, that I
have any particular apprehension of encountering Mr. Williams.”
“No, sir; not _you_, I’ll engage, not in open court; but out of doors
he’s very formidable.”
“I trust this cause, one involving the life and reputation of a very
interesting female, will not be tried out of doors, Mrs. Gott. The issue
is too serious for such a tribunal.”
“So a body would think; but a great deal of law-business is settled,
they tell me, under the sheds, and in the streets, and in the taverns;
most especially in the juror’s bed-rooms, and settled in a way it ought
not to be.”
“I am afraid you are nearer right than every just-minded person could
wish. But we will talk of this another time—the door if you please,
now.”
“Yes, sir, in one minute. It would be _so_ easy for Mary Monson to be
just as popular with everybody in Biberry as she is with me. Let her
come to one of the side-windows of the gallery this evening, and show
herself to the folks, and play on that harp of hers, and Royal David
himself could not have been better liked by the Jews of old, than she
would soon be by our people hereabouts.”
“It is probably now too late. The court sits in a few days; and the
mischief, if any there be, must be done.”
“No such thing, begging your pardon, ’Squire. There’s that in Mary
Monson that can carry anything she pleases. Folks now think her proud
and consequential, because she will not just stand at one of the grates
and let them look at her a little.”
“I am afraid, Mrs. Gott, your husband has taught you a greater respect
for those you call ‘the people,’ than they deserve to receive at your
hands.”
“Gott is dreadfully afraid of them——”
“And he is set apart by the laws to see them executed on these very
people,” interrupted Dunscomb, with a sneer; “to levy on their
possessions, keep the peace, enforce the laws; in short, to make them
_feel_, whenever it is necessary, that they are _governed_!”
“Gott says ‘that the people _will_ rule.’ That’s _his_ great saying.”
“Will _seem_ to rule, is true enough; but the most that the mass of any
nation _can_ do, is occasionally to check the proceedings of their
governors. The every-day work is most effectually done by a favoured few
here, just as it is done by a favoured few everywhere else. The door,
now, if you please, my good Mrs. Gott.”
“Yes, sir, in one minute. Dear me! how odd that you should think so.
Why, I thought that you were a democrat, Mr. Dunscomb?”
“So I am, as between forms of government; but I never was fool enough to
think that the people can really rule, further than by occasional checks
and rebukes.”
“What would Gott say to this! Why, he is so much afraid of the people,
that he tells me he never does anything, without fancying some one is
looking over his shoulders.”
“Ay, that is a very good rule for a man who wishes to be chosen
_sheriff_. To be a _bishop_, it would be better to remember the
omniscient eye.”
“I do declare—oh! Gott never thinks of _that_, more’s the pity,”
applying the key to the lock. “When you wish to come out, ’Squire, just
call at this grate”—then dropping her voice to a whisper—“try and
persuade Mary Monson to show herself at one of the side grates.”
But Dunscomb entered the gallery with no such intention. As he was
expected, his reception was natural and easy. The prisoner was carefully
though simply dressed, and she appeared all the better, most probably,
for some of the practised arts of her woman. Marie Moulin, herself, kept
modestly within the cell, where, indeed, she passed most of her time,
leaving the now quite handsomely furnished gallery to the uses of her
mistress.
After the first few words of salutation, Dunscomb took the chair he was
invited to occupy, a good deal at a loss how to address a woman of his
companion’s mien and general air as a culprit about to be tried for her
life. He first attempted words of course.
“I see you have had a proper regard to your comforts in this miserable
place,” he remarked.
“Do not call it by so forbidding a name, Mr. Dunscomb,” was the answer,
given with a sorrowful, but exceedingly winning smile—“it is _my_ place
of _refuge_.”
“Do you still persist in refusing to tell me against _what_, Miss
Monson?”
“I persist in nothing that ought not to be done, I hope. At another time
I may be more communicative. But, if what Mrs. Gott tells me is correct,
I need these walls to prevent my being torn to pieces by those she calls
the people, outside.”
Dunscomb looked with amazement at the being who quietly made this remark
on her own situation. Of beautiful form, with all the signs of a gentle
origin and refined education, young, handsome, delicate, nay, dainty of
speech and acts, there she sat, indicted for arson and murder, and about
to be tried for her life, with the composure of a lady in her
drawing-room! The illuminated expression that, at times, rendered her
countenance so very remarkable, had now given place to one of sobered
sadness; though apprehension did not appear to be in the least
predominant.
“The sheriff has instilled into his wife a very healthful respect for
those she calls the people—healthful, for one who looks to their voices
for his support. This is very American.”
“I suppose it to be much the same everywhere. I have been a good deal
abroad, Mr. Dunscomb, and cannot say I perceive any great difference in
men.”
“Nor is there any, though circumstances cause different modes of
betraying their weaknesses, as well as what there is in them that is
good. But the people in this country, Miss Monson, possess a power that,
in your case, is not to be despised. As Mrs. Gott would intimate, it may
be prudent for you to remember _that_.”
“Surely _you_ would not have me make an exhibition of myself, Mr.
Dunscomb, at the window of a gaol!”
“As far from that as possible. I would have you do nothing that is
unbecoming one of your habits and opinions—nothing, in short, that would
be improper, as a means of defence, by one accused and tried by the
State. Nevertheless, it is always wiser to make friends than to make
enemies.”
Mary Monson lowered her eyes to the carpet, and Dunscomb perceived that
her thoughts wandered. They were not on her critical situation. It was
indispensably necessary, however, that he should be explicit, and he did
not shrink from his duty. Gently, but distinctly, and with a clearness
that a far less gifted mind than that of the accused could comprehend,
he now opened the subject of the approaching trial. A few words were
first ventured on its grave character, and on the vast importance it was
in all respects to his client; to which the latter listened attentively,
but without the slightest visible alarm. Next, he alluded to the stories
that were in circulation, the impression they were producing, and the
danger there was that her rights might be affected by these sinister
opinions.
“But I am to be tried by a judge and a jury, they tell me,” said Mary
Monson, when Dunscomb ceased speaking—“they will come from a distance,
and will not be prejudiced against me by all this idle gossip.”
“Judges and jurors are only men, and nothing goes farther with less
effort than your ‘idle gossip.’ Nothing is repeated accurately, or it is
very rare to find it so; and those who only half comprehend a subject
are certain to relate with exaggerations and false colourings.”
“How, then, can the electors discover the real characters of those for
whom they are required to vote?” demanded Mary Monson, smiling; “or get
just ideas of the measures they are to support or to oppose?”
“Half the time they do neither. It exceeds all our present means, at
least, to diffuse sufficient information for _that_. The consequence is,
that appearances and assertions are made to take the place of facts. The
mental food of the bulk of this nation is an opinion simulated by the
artful to answer their own purposes. But the power of the masses is
getting to be very formidable—more formidable in a way never
contemplated by those who formed the institutions, than in any way that
was foreseen. Among other things, they begin to hold the administration
of justice in the hollow of their hands.”
“I am not to be tried by the masses, I trust. If so, my fate would be
very hard, I fear, judging from what I hear in my little excursions in
the neighbourhood.”
“Excursions, Miss Monson!” repeated the astonished Dunscomb.
“Excursions, sir; I make one for the benefit of air and exercise, every
favourable night, at this fine season of the year. Surely you would not
have me cooped up here in a gaol, without the relief of a little fresh
air?”
“With the knowledge and concurrence of the sheriff, or that of his
wife?”
“Perhaps not strictly with those of either; though I suspect good Mrs.
Gott has an inkling of my movements. It would be too hard to deny myself
air and exercise, both of which are very necessary to my health, because
I am charged with these horrid crimes.”
Dunscomb passed a hand over his brow, as if he desired to clear his
mental vision by friction of the physical, and, for a moment, sat
absolutely lost in wonder. He scarce knew whether he was or was not
dreaming.
“And you have actually been outside of these walls, Miss Monson!” he
exclaimed, at length.
“Twenty times, at least. Why should I stay within them, when the means
of quitting them are always in my power?”
As Mary Monson said this, she showed her counsel a set of keys that
corresponded closely with those which good Mrs. Gott was in the habit of
using whenever she came to open the door of that particular gallery. A
quiet smile betrayed how little the prisoner fancied there was anything
remarkable in all this.
“Are you aware, Miss Monson, it is felony to assist a prisoner to
escape?”
“So they tell me, Mr. Dunscomb; but as I have not escaped, or made any
attempt to escape, and have returned regularly and in good season to my
gaol, no one can be harmed for what I have done. Such, at least, is the
opinion of Mr. Timms.”
Dunscomb did not like the expression of face that accompanied this
speech. It might be too much to say it was absolutely cunning; but there
was so much of the manœuvring of one accustomed to manage in it, that it
awakened the unpleasant distrust that existed in the earlier days of his
intercourse with this singular young woman, and which had now been
dormant for several weeks. There was, however, so much of the cold
polish of the upper classes in his client’s manner, that the offending
expression was thrown off from the surface of her looks, as light is
reflected from the ground and silvered mirror. At the very instant which
succeeded this seeming gleam of cunning, all was calm, quiet, refined,
gentle, and without apparent emotion in the countenance of the accused.
“Timms!” repeated Dunscomb, slowly. “So _he_ has known of this, and I
dare say has had an agency in bringing it about?”
“As you say it is felony to aid a prisoner to escape, I can say neither
yes nor no to this, Mr. Dunscomb, lest I betray an accomplice. I should
rather think, however, that Mr. Timms is not a person to be easily
caught in the meshes of the law.”
Again the counsellor disliked the expression; though Mary Monson looked
unusually pretty at that particular moment. He did not pause to analyze
his feelings, notwithstanding, but rather sought to relieve his own
curiosity, which had been a good deal aroused by the information just
received.
“As you have not hesitated to tell me of what you call your
‘excursions,’ Miss Monson,” he continued, “perhaps you will so far
extend your confidence as to let me know where you go?”
“I can have no objection to that. Mr. Timms tells me the law cannot
compel a counsel to betray his client’s secrets; and of course I am safe
with you. Stop—I have a duty to perform that has been too long delayed.
Gentlemen of your profession are entitled to their fees; and, as yet, I
have been very remiss in this respect. Will you do me the favour, Mr.
Dunscomb, to accept that, which you will see has been some time in
readiness to be offered.”
Dunscomb was too much of a professional man to feel any embarrassment at
this act of justice; but he took the letter, broke the seal, even before
his client’s eyes, and held up for examination a note for a thousand
dollars. Prepared as he was by Timms’s account for a liberal reward,
this large sum took him a good deal by surprise.
“This is an unusual fee, Miss Monson!” he exclaimed; “one much more
considerable than I should expect from you, were I working for
remuneration, as in your case I certainly am not.”
“Gentlemen of the law look for their reward, I believe, as much as
others. We do not live in the times of chivalry, when gallant men
assisted distressed damsels as a matter of honour; but in what has well
been termed a ‘bank-note world.’”
“I have no wish to set myself up above the fair practices of my
profession, and am as ready to accept a fee as any man in Nassau-Street.
Nevertheless, I took your case in hand with a very different motive. It
would pain me to be obliged to work for a fee, on the present unhappy
occasion.”
Mary Monson looked grateful, and for a minute she seemed to be
reflecting on some scheme by which she could devise a substitute for the
old-fashioned mode of proceeding in a case of this sort.
“You have a niece, Mr. Dunscomb,” she at length exclaimed—“as Marie
Moulin informs me? A charming girl, and who is about to be married?”
The lawyer assented by an inclination of the head, fastening his
penetrating black eyes on the full, expressive, greyish-blue ones of his
companion.
“You intend to return to town this evening?” said Mary Monson, in
continuation.
“Such is my intention. I came here to-day to confer with you and Mr.
Timms, on the subject of the trial, to see how matters stand on the
spot, by personal observation, and to introduce to you one who feels the
deepest interest in your welfare and desires most earnestly to seek your
acquaintance.”
The prisoner was now silent, interrogating with her singularly
expressive eyes.
“It is Anna Updyke, the step-daughter of my nearest friend, Dr. McBrain;
and a very sincere, warm-hearted, and excellent girl.”
“I have heard of her, too,” returned Mary Monson, with a smile so
strange, that her counsel wished she had not given this demonstration of
a feeling that seemed out of place, under all the circumstances. “They
tell me she is a most charming girl, and that she is a very great
favourite with your nephew, the young gentleman whom I have styled my
legal vidette.”
“Vidette! That is a singular term to be used by _you_!”
“Oh! you will remember that I have been much in countries where such
persons abound. I must have caught the word from some of the young
soldiers of Europe. But, Mr. John Wilmeter is an admirer of the young
lady you have named?”
“I hope he is. I know of no one with whom I think he would be more
likely to be happy.”
Dunscomb spoke earnestly, and at such times his manner was singularly
sincere and impressive. It was this appearance of feeling and nature
that gave him the power he possessed over juries; and it may be said to
have made no small part of his fortune. Mary Monson seemed to be
surprised; and she fastened her remarkable eyes on the uncle, in a way
that might have admitted of different interpretations. Her lips moved as
if she spoke to herself; and the smile that succeeded was both mild and
sad.
“To be sure,” added the prisoner, slowly, “my information is not on the
very best authority, coming, as it does, from a servant—but Marie Moulin
is both discreet and observant.”
“She is tolerably well qualified to speak of Anna Updyke, having seen
her almost daily for the last two years. But, we are all surprised that
_you_ should know anything of this young woman.”
“I know her precisely as she is known to your niece and Miss Updyke—in
other words, as a maid who is much esteemed by those she serves—but,”
apparently wishing to change the discourse—“we are forgetting the
purpose of your visit, all this time, Mr. Dunscomb. Do me the favour to
write your address in town, and that of Dr. McBrain on this card, and we
will proceed to business.”
Dunscomb did as desired, when he opened on the details that were the
object of his little journey. As had been the case in all his previous
interviews with her, Mary Monson surprised him with the coolness with
which she spoke of an issue that involved her own fate, for life or for
death. While she carefully abstained from making any allusion to
circumstances that might betray her previous history, she shrunk from no
inquiry that bore on the acts of which she had been accused. Every
question put by Dunscomb that related to the murders and the arson, was
answered frankly and freely, there being no wish apparent to conceal the
minutest circumstance. She made several exceedingly shrewd and useful
suggestions on the subject of the approaching trial, pointing out
defects in the testimony against her, and reasoning with singular
acuteness on particular facts that were known to be much relied on by
the prosecution. We shall not reveal these details any further in this
stage of our narrative, for they will necessarily appear at length in
our subsequent pages; but shall confine ourselves to a few of those
remarks that may be better given at present.
“I do not know, Mr. Dunscomb,” Mary Monson suddenly said, while the
subject of her trial was yet under discussion, “that I have ever
mentioned to you the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin were not happy
together. One would think, from what was said at the time of the
inquest, that they were a very affectionate and contented couple; but my
own observation, during the short time I was under their roof, taught me
better. The husband drank, and the wife was avaricious and very
quarrelsome. I am afraid, sir, there are few really happy couples to be
found on earth!”
“If you knew McBrain better, you would not say that, my dear Miss
Monson,” answered the counsellor with a sort of glee—“there’s a husband
for you!—a fellow who is not only happy with _one_ wife, but who is
happy with _three_, as he will tell you himself.”
“Not all at the same time, I hope, sir?”
Dunscomb did justice to his friend’s character, by relating how the
matter really stood; after which he asked permission to introduce Anna
Updyke. Mary Monson seemed startled at this request, and asked several
questions, which induced her counsel to surmise that she was fearful of
being recognised. Nor was Dunscomb pleased with all the expedients
adopted by his client, in order to extract information from him. He
thought they slightly indicated cunning, a quality that he might be said
to abhor. Accustomed as he was to all the efforts of ingenuity in
illustrating a principle or maintaining a proposition, he had always
avoided everything like sophistry and falsehood. This weakness on the
part of Mary Monson, however, was soon forgotten in the graceful manner
in which she acquiesced in the wish of the stranger to be admitted. The
permission was finally accorded, as if an honour were received, with the
tact of a female and the easy dignity of a gentlewoman.
Anna Updyke possessed a certain ardour of character that had more than
once, given her prudent and sagacious mother uneasiness, and which
sometimes led her into the commission of acts, always innocent in
themselves, and perfectly under the restraint of principles, which the
world would have been apt to regard as imprudent. Such, however, was far
from being her reputation, her modesty and the diffidence with which she
regarded herself, being amply sufficient to protect her from the common
observation, even while most beset by the weakness named. Her love for
John Wilmeter was so disinterested, or to herself so seemed to be, that
she fancied she could even assist in bringing about his union with
another woman, were that necessary to his happiness. She believed that
this mysterious stranger was, to say the least, an object of intense
interest with John, which soon made her an object of intense interest
with herself; and each hour increased her desire to become acquainted
with one so situated, friendless, accused, and seemingly suspended by a
thread over an abyss, as she was. When she first made her proposal to
Dunscomb to be permitted to visit his client, the wary and experienced
counsellor strongly objected to the step. It was imprudent, could lead
to no good, and might leave an impression unfavourable to Anna’s own
character. But this advice was unheeded by a girl of Anna Updyke’s
generous temperament. Quiet and gentle as she ordinarily appeared to be,
there was a deep under-current of feeling and enthusiasm in her moral
constitution, that bore her onward in any course which she considered to
be right, with a total abnegation of self. This was a quality to lead to
good or evil, as it might receive a direction; and happily nothing had
yet occurred in her brief existence to carry her away towards the latter
goal.
Surprised at the steadiness and warmth with which his young friend
persevered in her request, Dunscomb, after obtaining the permission of
her mother, and promising to take good care of his charge, was permitted
to convey Anna to Biberry, in the manner related.
Now, that her wish was about to be gratified, Anna Updyke, like
thousands of others who have been more impelled by impulses than
governed by reason, shrank from the execution of her own purposes. But
the generous ardour revived in her in time to save appearances; and she
was admitted by well-meaning Mrs. Gott to the gallery of the prison,
leaning on Dunscomb’s arm, much as she might have entered a
drawing-room, in a regular morning call.
The meeting between these two charming young women was frank and
cordial, though slightly qualified by the forms of the world. A watchful
and critical observer might have detected less of nature in Mary
Monson’s manner than in that of her guest, even while the welcome she
gave her visitor was not without cordiality and feeling. It is true that
her courtesy was more elaborate and European, if one may use the
expression, than it is usual to see in an American female, and her air
was less ardent than that of Anna; but the last was highly struck with
her countenance and general appearance, and, on the whole, not
dissatisfied with her own reception.
The power of sympathy and the force of affinities soon made themselves
felt, as between these two youthful females. Anna regarded Mary as a
stranger most grievously wronged; and forgetting all that there was
which was questionable or mysterious in her situation, or remembering it
only to feel the influence of its interest, while she submitted to a
species of community of feeling with John Wilmeter, as she fancied, and
soon got to be as much entranced with the stranger as seemed to be the
fate of all who approached the circle of her acquaintance. On the other
hand, Mary Monson felt a consolation and gratification in this visit to
which she had long been a stranger. Good Mrs. Gott was kind-hearted and
a woman, but she had no claim to the refinement and peculiar
sensibilities of a lady; while Marie Moulin, discreet, respectful, even
wise as she was in her own way, was, after all, nothing but an upper
servant. The chasm between the cultivated and the uncultivated, the
polished and the unpolished, is wide; and the accused fully appreciated
the change, when one of her own class in life, habits, associations,
and, if the reader will, prejudices, so unexpectedly appeared to
sympathize with, and to console her. Under such circumstances, three or
four hours made the two fast and deeply-interested friends, on their own
accounts, to say nothing of the effect produced by the generous advances
of one, and the perilous condition of the other.
Dunscomb returned to town that evening, leaving Anna Updyke behind him,
ostensibly under the care of Mrs. Gott. Democracy has been carried so
far on the high road of ultraism in New York, as in very many interests
to become the victim of its own expedients. Perhaps the people are never
so far from exercising a healthful, or indeed, any authority at all, as
when made to seem, by the expedients of demagogues, to possess an
absolute control. It is necessary merely to bestow a power which it is
impossible for the masses to wield with intelligence, in order to effect
this little piece of legerdemain in politics, the quasi people in all
such cases becoming the passive instruments in the hands of their
leaders, who strengthen their own authority by this seeming support of
the majority. In all cases, however, in which the agency of numbers can
be felt, its force is made to prevail, the tendency necessarily being to
bring down all representation to the level of the majority. The effect
of the change has been pretty equally divided between good and evil. In
many cases benefits have accrued to the community by the exercise of
this direct popular control, while in probably quite as many the result
has been exactly the reverse of that which was anticipated. In no one
instance, we believe it will be generally admitted, has the departure
from the old practice been less advantageous than in rendering the
office of sheriff elective. Instead of being a leading and independent
man, who has a pride in his position, and regards the character of his
county as he does his own, this functionary has got to be, nine times in
ten, a mere political manœuvrer, who seeks the place as a reward for
party labours, and fills it very much for his personal benefit,
conferring no dignity on it by his own position and character, lessening
its authority by his want of the qualities calculated to increase it,
and, in a good many instances, making it quite as difficult to wrest
money from _his_ hands, as from those of the original debtor.
It is a consequence of this state of things that the sheriff has quite
lost all, or nearly all of the personal consideration that was once
connected with his office; and has sunk, in most of the strictly rural
counties, into a gaoler, and the head of the active bailiffs. His object
is altogether money; and the profit connected with the keeping of the
prisoners, now reduced almost entirely to felons, the accused, and
persons committed for misdemeanors, is one of the inducements for
aspiring to an office once so honourable.
In this state of things, it is not at all surprising that Dunscomb was
enabled to make such an arrangement with Mrs. Gott as would place Anna
Updyke in a private room in the house attached to the gaol, and which
formed the sheriff’s dwelling. The counsellor preferred leaving her with
Mrs. Horton; but to this Anna herself objected, both because she had
taken a strong dislike to the garrulous but shrewd landlady, and because
it would have separated her too much from the person she had come
especially to console and sympathize with.
The arrangement made, Dunscomb, as has already been mentioned, took his
departure for town, with the understanding that he was to return the
succeeding week; the Circuit and Oyer and Terminer sitting on Monday;
and the District Attorney, Mr. Garth, having given notice to her counsel
that the indictment against Mary Monson would be certainly traversed the
second day of the sitting, which would be on Tuesday.
[Illustration]