“Thou hast already racked me with thy stay;
Therefore require me not to ask thee twice:
Reply at once to all. What is concluded?”
_Mourning Bride._
During the interval between the occurrence of the scene in court that
has just been related, and the appearance of Dunscomb at Biberry, the
community was rapidly taking sides on the subject of the guilt or
innocence of Mary Monson. The windows of the gaol were crowded all day;
throngs collecting there to catch glimpses of the extraordinary female,
who was rightly enough reported to be living in a species of luxury in
so unusual a place, and who was known to play on an instrument that the
popular mind was a good deal disposed to regard as sacred. As a matter
of course, a hundred stories were in circulation, touching the
character, history, sayings and doings of this remarkable person, that
had no foundation whatever in truth; for it is an infirmity of human
nature to circulate and place its belief in falsehoods of this sort; and
more especially of human nature as it is exhibited in a country where
care has been taken to stimulate the curiosity of the vulgar, without
exactly placing them in a condition to appease its longings, either
intelligently or in a very good taste.
This interest would have been manifested, in such a case, had there been
no particular moving cause; but the secret practices of Williams and
Timms greatly increased its intensity, and was bringing the population
of Duke’s to a state of excitement that was very little favourable to an
impartial administration of justice. Discussions had taken place at
every corner, and in all the bar-rooms; and many were the alleged facts
connected with the murders, which had their sole existence in rumour,
that was adduced in the heat of argument, or to make out a
supposititious case. All this time, Williams was either in court,
attending closely to his different causes, or was seen passing between
the court-house and the tavern, with bundles of papers under his arms,
like a man absorbed in business. Timms played a very similar part,
though _he_ found leisure to hold divers conferences with several of his
confidential agents. Testimony was his aim; and, half a dozen times,
when he fancied himself on the point of establishing something new and
important, the whole of the ingenious fabric he had reared came tumbling
about his ears, in consequence of some radical defect in the foundation.
Such was the state of things on the evening of Wednesday, the day
preceding that which had been set down for the trial, when the stage
arrived bringing “’Squire Dunscomb,” his carpet-bags, his trunk, and his
books. McBrain shortly after drove up in his own carriage; and Anna was
soon in her mother’s arms. The excitement, so general in the place, had
naturally enough extended to these females; and Mrs. McBrain and her
daughter were soon closeted, talking over the affair of Mary Monson.
About eight that evening, Dunscomb and Timms were busy, looking over
minutes of testimony, briefs, and other written documents that were
connected with the approaching trial. Mrs. Horton had reserved the best
room in her house for this distinguished counsel; an apartment in a wing
that was a good deal removed from the noise and bustle of a leading inn,
during a circuit. Here Dunscomb had been duly installed, and here he
early set up “his traps,” as he termed his flesh-brushes, sponges,
briefs, and calfskin-covered volumes. Two tallow candles threw a dim,
lawyer-like light on the scene; while unrolled paper-curtains shut out
as much of night as such an imperfect screen would exclude. The odour of
segars—excellent Havannas, by the way—was fragrant in the place; and one
of the little fountains of smoke was stuck knowingly in a corner of the
eminent counsel’s mouth, while Timms had garnished his skinny lips with
the short stump of a pipe. Neither said anything; one of the parties
presenting documents that the other read in silence. Such was the state
of matters, when a slight tap at the door was succeeded by the
unexpected appearance of “saucy Williams.” Timms started, gathered
together all his papers with the utmost care, and awaited the
explanation of this unlooked-for visit with the most lively curiosity.
Dunscomb, on the other hand, received his guest with urbanity, and like
one who felt that the wrangling of the bar, in which, by the way, he had
too much self-respect and good temper to indulge, had no necessary
connection with the courtesies of private life.
Williams had scarcely a claim superior to those of Timms, to be
considered a gentleman; though he had the advantage of having been what
is termed liberally educated—a phrase of very doubtful import, when put
to the test of old-fashioned notions on such subjects. In manners, he
had the defects, and we may add the merits, of the school in which he
had been educated. All that has been said of Timms on this subject, in
the way of censure, was equally applicable to Williams; but the last
possessed a self-command, an admirable reliance on his own qualities,
which would have fitted him, as regards this one quality, to be an
emperor. Foreigners wonder at the self-possession of Americans in the
presence of the great; and it is really one of the merits of the
institutions that it causes every person to feel that he is a man, and
entitled to receive the treatment due to a being so high in the scale of
earthly creations. It is true, that this feeling often degenerates into
a vulgar and over-sensitive jealousy, frequently rendering its possessor
exacting and ridiculous; but, on the whole, the effect is manly, not to
say ennobling.
Now, Williams was self-possessed by nature, as well as by association
and education. Though keenly alive to the differences and chances of
fortune, he never succumbed to mere rank and wealth. Intriguing by
disposition, not to say by education, he could affect a deference he did
not feel; but, apart from the positive consequences of power, he was not
to be daunted by the presence of the most magnificent sovereign who ever
reigned. No wonder, then, that he felt quite at home in the company of
his present host; though fully aware that he was one of the leading
members of the New York bar. As a proof of this independence may be
cited the fact that he had no sooner paid his salutations and been
invited to be seated, than he deliberately selected a segar from the
open box of Dunscomb, lighted it, took a chair, raised one leg coolly on
the corner of a table, and began to smoke.
“The calendar is a little crowded,” observed this free-and-easy visiter,
“and is likely to carry us over into the middle of next week. Are you
retained in Daniels against Fireman’s Insurance?”
“I am not—a brief was offered by the plaintiff, but I declined taking
it.”
“A little conscientious, I suppose. Well, I leave all the sin of my
suits on the shoulders of my clients. It is bad enough to _listen_ to
their griefs, without being called on to _smart_ for them. I have heard
you are in Cogswell against Davidson?”
“In that cause I have been retained. I may as well say, at once, we
intend to move it on.”
“It’s of no great moment—if you beat us at the circuit, our turn will
come on execution.”
“I believe, Mr. Williams, your clients have a knack at gaining the day
in that mode. It is of no great interest to me, however, as I rarely
take the management of a cause after it quits the courts.”
“How do you like the Code, brother Dunscomb?”
“Damnable, sir. I am too old, in the first place, to like change. Then
change from bad to worse is adding folly to imbecility. The Common Law
practice had its faults, I allow; but this new system has no merits.”
“I do not go as far as that; and I rather begin to like the new plan of
remuneration. We are nothing out of pocket, and sometimes are a handsome
sum in. You defend Mary Monson?”
Timms felt assured that his old antagonist had now reached the case that
had really brought him to the room. He fidgeted, looked eagerly round to
see that no stray paper could fall beneath the hawk-like eye of the
other party, and then sat in comparative composure, waiting the result.
“I do,” Dunscomb quietly replied; “and I shall do it _con amore_—I
suppose you know what that means, Mr. Williams?”
A sarcastic smile passed over the steeled countenance of the other, his
appearance being literally sardonic for an instant.
“I presume I do. We know enough Latin in Duke’s to get along with such a
quotation; though our friend Timms here despises the classics. ‘Con
amore’ means, in this instance, a ‘lover’s zeal,’ I suppose; for they
tell me that all who approach the criminal submits to her power to
charm.”
“The _accused_, if you please,” put in the opposing attorney; “but no
_criminal_, until the word ‘_guilty_’ has been pronounced.”
“I am convicted. They say you are to be the happy man, Timms, in the
event of an acquittal. It is reported all over the county, that you are
to become Mr. Monson as a reward for your services; and if half that I
hear be true, you will deserve her, with a good estate in the bargain.”
Here Williams laughed heartily at his own wit; but Dunscomb looked
grave, while his associate counsel looked angry. In point of fact the
nail had been hit on the head; and consciousness lighted the spirit
within, with its calm, mild glow. The senior counsel was too proud, and
too dignified, to make any reply; but Timms was troubled with no such
feeling.
“If there are any such rumours in old Duke’s,” retorted the last, “it
will not need mesmerism to discover their author. In my opinion, the
people ought to carry on their suits in a spirit of liberality and
justice; and not in a vindictive, malicious temper.”
“We are all of the same way of thinking,” answered Williams, with a
sneer. “I consider it liberal to give you a handsome young woman with a
full purse; though no one can say how, or by whom, it has been filled.
By the way, Mr. Dunscomb, I am instructed to make a proposal to you; and
as Timms is in the court, this may be as good a moment as another to
present it for consideration. My offer is from the nephew, next of kin,
and sole heir of the late Peter Goodwin; by whom, as you probably know,
I am retained. This gentleman is well assured that his deceased
relatives had a large sum in gold by them, at the time of the murders——”
“No verdict has yet shown that there has been any murders at all,”
interrupted Timms.
“We have the verdict of the inquest, begging your pardon, brother
Timms—that is something, surely; though not enough, quite likely, to
convince your mind. But, to proceed with my proposition:—My client is
well assured that such a secret fund existed. He also knows that _your_
client, gentlemen, is flush of money, and money in gold coins that
correspond with many pieces that have been seen by different individuals
in the possession of our aunt——”
“Ay, eagles and half-eagles,” interrupted Timms—“a resemblance that
comes from the stamp of the mint.”
“Go on with your proposition, Mr. Williams”—said Dunscomb.
“We offer to withdraw all our extra counsel, myself included, and to
leave the case altogether with the State, which is very much the same
thing as an acquittal; provided you will _return_ to us five thousand
dollars in this gold coin. Not _pay_, for that might be compounding a
felony; but _return_.”
“There could be no compounding a felony, if the indictment be not
quashed, but traversed,” said the senior counsel for the defence.
“Very true; but we prefer the word ‘return.’ That leaves everything
clear, and will enable us to face the county. Our object is to get our
_rights_—let the State take care of its justice for itself.”
“You can hardly expect that such a proposition should be accepted,
Williams?”
“I am not so sure of that, Timms; life is sweeter than money even. I
should like to hear the answer of your associate, however. You, I can
see, have no intention of lessening the marriage portion, if it can be
helped.”
Such side-hits were so common in court, as between these worthies, that
neither thought much of them out of court. But Williams gave a signal
proof of the acuteness of his observation, when he expressed a wish to
know in what light his proposal was viewed by Dunscomb. That learned
gentleman evidently paid more respect to the offer than had been
manifested by his associate; and now sat silently ruminating on its
nature. Thus directly appealed to, he felt the necessity of giving some
sort of an answer.
“You have come expressly to make this proposition to us, Mr. Williams?”
Dunscomb demanded.
“To be frank with you, sir, such is the main object of my visit.”
“Of course it is sanctioned by your client, and you speak by authority?”
“It is fully sanctioned by my client, who would greatly prefer the plan;
and I act directly by his written instructions. Nothing short of these
would induce me to make the proposition.”
“Very well, sir. Will an answer by ten o’clock this evening meet your
views?”
“Perfectly so. An answer at any time between this and the sitting of the
court to-morrow morning, will fully meet our views. The terms, however,
cannot be diminished. Owing to the shortness of the time, it may be well
to understand _that_.”
“Then, Mr. Williams, I ask a little time for reflection and
consultation. We may meet again to-night.”
The other assented, rose, coolly helped himself to another segar, and
had got as far as the door, when an expressive gesture from Timms
induced him to pause.
“Let us understand each other,” said the last, with emphasis. “Is this a
truce, with a complete cessation of hostilities; or is it only a
negotiation to be carried on in the midst of war?”
“I hardly comprehend your meaning, Mr. Timms. The question is simply one
of taking certain forces—allied forces, they may be called—from the
field, and leaving you to contend only with the main enemy. There need
be nothing said of a truce, since nothing further can be done until the
court opens.”
“That may do very well, Williams, for those that haven’t practised in
Duke’s as long as myself; but it will not do for me. There is an army of
reporters here, at this moment; and I am afraid that the allies of whom
you speak have whole corps of skirmishers.”
Williams maintained a countenance so unmoved that even the judicious
Timms was a little shaken; while Dunscomb, who had all the reluctance of
a gentleman to believe in an act of meanness, felt outraged by his
associate’s suspicions.
“Come, come, Mr. Timms,” the last exclaimed, “I beg we may have no more
of this. Mr. Williams has come with a proposition worthy of our
consideration; let us meet it in the spirit in which it is offered.”
“Yes,” repeated Williams, with a look that might well have explained his
_sobriquet_ of ‘saucy;’ “yes, in the spirit in which it is offered. What
do you say to that, Timms?”
“That I shall manage the defence precisely as if no such proposition had
been made, or any negotiation accepted. You can do the same for the
prosecution.”
“Agreed!” Williams rejoined, making a sweeping gesture with his hand,
and immediately quitting the room.
Dunscomb was silent for a minute. A thread of smoke arose from the end
of his segar; but the volume no longer poured from between his lips. He
was ruminating too intensely even to smoke. Rising suddenly, he took his
hat, and motioned towards the door.
“Timms, we must go to the gaol,” he said; “Mary Monson must be spoken to
at once.”
“If Williams had made his proposition ten days ago, there might be some
use in listening to it,” returned the junior, following the senior
counsel from the room, carrying all the papers in the cause under an
arm; “but, now that all the mischief is done, it would be throwing away
five thousand dollars to listen to his proposition.”
“We will see—we will see,” answered the other, hurrying down
stairs—“what means the rumpus in that room, Timms? Mrs. Horton has not
treated me well, to place a troublesome neighbour so near me. I shall
stop and tell her as much, as we go through the hall.”
“You had better not, ’Squire. We want all our friends just now; and a
sharp word might cause us to lose this woman, who has a devil of a
tongue. She tells me that a crazy man was brought here privately; and,
being well paid for it, she has consented to give him what she calls her
‘drunkard’s parlour,’ until the court has settled his affair. His room,
like your own, is so much out of the way, that the poor fellow gives
very little trouble to the great body of the boarders.”
“Ay, very little trouble to _you_, and the rest of you, in the main
building; but a great deal to me. I shall speak to Mrs. Horton on the
subject, as we pass out.”
“Better not, ’Squire. The woman is our friend now, I know; but a warm
word may turn her to the right-about.”
It is probable Dunscomb was influenced by his companion; for he left the
house without putting his threat in execution. In a few minutes he and
Timms were at the gaol. As counsel could not well be refused admission
to their client on the eve of trial, the two lawyers were admitted to
the gallery within the outer door that has been so often mentioned. Of
course, Mary Monson was notified of the visit; and she received them
with Anna Updyke, the good, gentle, considerate Anna, who was ever
disposed to help the weak and to console the unhappy, at her side.
Dunscomb had no notion that the intimacy had grown to this head; but
when he came to reflect that one of the parties was to be tried for her
life next day, he was disposed to overlook the manifest indiscretion of
his old favourite in being in such a place. Mrs. McBrain’s presence
released him from all responsibility; and he returned the warm pressure
of Anna’s hand in kindness, if not with positive approbation. As for the
girl herself, the very sight of “Uncle Tom,” as she had so long been
accustomed to call the counsellor, cheered her heart, and raised new
hopes in behalf of her friend.
In a few clear, pointed words, Dunscomb let the motive of his visit be
known. There was little time to throw away, and he went directly at his
object, stating everything succinctly, but in the most intelligible
manner. Nothing could have been more calm than the manner in which Mary
Monson listened to his statement; her deportment being as steady as that
of one sitting in judgment herself, rather than that of a person whose
own fate was involved in the issue.
“It is a large sum to raise in so short a time,” continued the
kind-hearted Dunscomb; “but I deem the proposition so important to your
interest, that, rather than lose this advantage, I would not hesitate
about advancing the money myself, should you be unprepared for so heavy
a demand.”
“As respects the money, Mr. Dunscomb,” returned the fair prisoner, in
the most easy and natural manner, “_that_ need give us no concern. By
sending a confidential messenger to town—Mr. John Wilmeter, for
instance”—here Anna pressed less closely to her friend’s side—“it would
be very easy to have five hundred eagles or a thousand half-eagles here,
by breakfast-time to-morrow. It is not on account of any such difficulty
that I hesitate a moment. What I dislike is the injustice of the thing.
I have never touched a cent of poor Mrs. Goodwin’s hoard; and it would
be false to admit that I am _returning_ that which I never received.”
“We must not be particular, ma’am, on immaterial points, when there is
so much at stake.”
“It may be immaterial whether I pay money under one form or another, Mr.
Dunscomb; but it cannot be immaterial to my future standing, whether I
am acquitted in the teeth of this Mr. Williams’s opposition, or under
favour of his purchase.”
“Acquitted! Our case is not absolutely clear, Miss Monson—it is my duty
to tell you as much!”
“I understand such to be the opinion of both Mr. Timms and yourself,
sir; I like the candour of your conduct, but am not converted to your
way of thinking. I shall be acquitted, gentlemen—yes, honourably,
triumphantly acquitted; and I cannot consent to lessen the impression of
such a termination to my affair, by putting myself in the way of being
even suspected of a collusion with a man like this saucy Williams. It is
far better to meet him openly, and to defy him to do his worst. Perhaps
some such trial, followed by complete success, will be necessary to my
future happiness.”
Anna now pressed nearer to the side of her friend; passing an arm,
unconsciously to herself, around her waist. As for Dunscomb, he gazed at
the handsome prisoner in a sort of stupefied wonder. The place, the
hour, the business of the succeeding day, and all the accessories of the
scene, had an effect to increase the confusion of his mind, and, for the
moment, to call in question the fidelity of his senses. As he gazed at
the prison-like aspect of the gallery, his eye fell on the countenance
of Marie Moulin, and rested there in surprise for half a minute. The
Swiss maid was looking earnestly at her mistress, with an expression of
concern and of care so intense, that it caused the counsellor to search
for their cause. For the first time it flashed on his mind that Mary
Monson might be a lunatic, and that the defence so often set up in
capital cases as to weary the common mind, might be rendered justly
available in this particular instance. The whole conduct of this
serving-woman had been so singular; the deportment of Mary Monson
herself was so much out of the ordinary rules; and the adhesion of Anna
Updyke, a girl of singular prudence of conduct, notwithstanding her
disposition to enthusiasm, so marked, that the inference was far from
unnatural. Nevertheless, Mary Monson had never looked more calm, more
intellectual; never manifested more of a mien of high intelligence, than
at that very instant. The singular illumination of the countenance to
which we have had occasion already to allude, was conspicuous, but it
was benignant and quiet; and the flush of the cheeks added lustre to her
eyes. Then the sentiments expressed were just and noble, free from the
cunning and mendacity of a maniac; and such as any man might be proud to
have the wife of his bosom entertain. All these considerations quickly
chased the rising distrust from Dunscomb’s mind, and his thoughts
reverted to the business that had brought him there.
“You are the best judge, ma’am, of what will most contribute to your
happiness,” rejoined the counsellor, after a brief pause. “In the
ignorance in which we are kept of the past, I might well add, the _only_
judge; though it is possible that your female companions know more, in
this respect, than your legal advisers. It is proper I should say, once
more, and probably for the last time, that your case will be greatly
prejudiced unless you enable us to dwell on your past life freely and
truly.”
“I am accused of murdering an unoffending female and her husband; of
setting fire to the dwelling, and of robbing them of their gold. These
are accusations that can properly be answered only by a complete
acquittal, after a solemn investigation. No half-way measures will do. I
must be found not guilty, or a blot rests on my character for life. My
position is singular—I had almost said cruel—in some respects owing to
my own wilfulness——”
Here Anna Updyke pressed closer to her friend’s side, as if she would
defend her against these self-accusations; while Marie Moulin dropped
her needle, and listened with the liveliest curiosity.
“In _many_ respects, perhaps,” continued Mary, after a short pause, “and
I must take the consequences. Wilfulness has ever been my greatest
enemy. It has been fed by perfect independence and too much money. I
doubt if it be good for woman to be thus tried. We were created for
dependence, Mr. Dunscomb; dependence on our fathers, on our brothers,
and perhaps on our husbands”—here there was another pause; and the
cheeks of the fair speaker flushed, while her eyes became brilliant to
light.
“_Perhaps!_” repeated the counsellor, with solemn emphasis.
“I know that men think differently from us on this subject——”
“From _us_—do you desire me to believe that most women wish to be
independent of their husbands? Ask the young woman at your side, if
_that_ be her feeling of the duties of her sex.”
Anna dropped her head on her bosom, and blushed scarlet. In all her
day-dreams of happiness with John Wilmeter, the very reverse of the
feeling now alluded to, had been uppermost in her mind; and to her
nothing had ever seemed half as sweet as the picture of leaning on him
for support, guidance, authority, and advice. The thought of
independence would have been painful to her; for a principle of nature,
the instinct of her sex, taught her that the part of woman was “to love,
honour, and obey.” As for Mary Monson, she quailed a little before the
severe eye of Dunscomb; but education, the accidents of life, and
possibly a secret principle of her peculiar temperament, united to
stimulate her to maintain her original ground.
“I know not what may be the particular notions of Miss Updyke,” returned
this singular being, “but I can feel my own longings. They are all for
independence. Men have not dealt fairly by women. Possessing the power,
they have made all the laws, fashioned all the opinions of the world, in
their own favour. Let a woman err, and she can never rise from her fall;
while men live with impunity in the midst of their guilt. If a woman
think differently from those around her, she is expected to conceal her
opinions, in order to receive those of her masters. Even in the worship
of God, the highest and most precious of all our duties, she is expected
to play a secondary part, and act as if the Christian Faith favoured the
sentiment of another, which teaches that women have no souls.”
“All this is as old as the repinings of a very treacherous nature, young
lady,” answered Dunscomb, coolly; “and I have often heard it before. It
is not surprising, however, that a young, handsome, highly-educated, and
I presume rich, person of your sex, should be seduced by notions
seemingly so attractive, and long for what she will be apt to term the
emancipation of her sex. This is an age of emancipation; prudent
grey-headed men become deluded, and exhibit their folly by succumbing to
a wild and exceedingly silly philanthropical hurrah! Even religion is
emancipated! There are churches, it is true; but they exist as
appendages of society, instead of being divine institutions, established
for the secret purposes of unerring wisdom; and we hear men openly
commending this or that ecclesiastical organization, because it has more
or less of the savour of republicanism. But one new dogma remains to be
advanced—that the government of the universe is democratical—in which
the ‘music of the spheres’ is a popular song; and the disappearance of a
world a matter to be referred to the people in their primary capacity.
Among other absurdities of the hour is a new law, giving to married
women the control of their property, and drawing a line of covetousness
across the bolster of every marriage bed in the State!”
“Surely, Mr. Dunscomb, a man of your integrity, character, manliness,
and principles, would defend the weaker sex in the maintenance of its
rights against prodigality, tyranny, and neglect!”
“These are so many words, my dear ma’am, and are totally without
meaning, when thoroughly sifted. God created woman to be a help-meet to
man—to comfort, solace, and aid him in his pursuit after worldly
happiness; but always in a dependent relation. The marriage condition,
viewed in its every-day aspect, has sufficient causes of disagreement,
without drawing in this of property. One of the dearest and nearest of
its ties, indeed, that of a perfect identification of interests, is at
once cut off by this foolish, not to say wicked attempt to light the
torch of contention in every household. It were better to teach our
women not to throw themselves away on men who cannot be trusted; to
inculcate the necessity of not marrying in haste to repent at leisure,
than to tinker the old, venerable, and long-tried usages of our fathers,
by crotchets that come far more from the feverish audacity of ignorance,
than from philosophy or wisdom. Why, unless the courts interpose their
prudence to rectify the blunders of the legislature, as they have
already done a hundred times, the labourer’s wife may have her action
against her husband for the earthen bowl he has broken; and the man may
be sued by the wife for rent! The happiness of every home is hourly put
in jeopardy, in order that, now and then, a wife may be saved from the
courses of a speculator or a spendthrift.”
“Might not this have been done before, uncle Tom, by means of
settlements?” asked Anna, with interest.
“Certainly; and that it is which renders all this silly quackery so much
the worse. In those cases in which the magnitude of the stake might seem
to demand extraordinary care, the means already existed for providing
all useful safeguards; and any new legislation was quite unnecessary.
This very law will produce twenty-fold more unhappiness in families,
than it will prevent of misery, by setting up distinct, and often
conflicting interests, among those who ought to live as ‘bone of their
bone, and flesh of their flesh.’”
“You do not give to woman her proper place in society, Mr. Dunscomb,”
returned Mary Monson, haughtily; “your comments are those of a bachelor.
I have heard of a certain Miss Millington, who once had an interest with
you, and who, if living, would have taught you juster sentiments on this
subject.”
Dunscomb turned as white as a sheet; his hand and lip quivered; and all
desire to continue the discourse suddenly left him. The gentle Anna,
ever attentive to his wishes and ailings, stole to his side, silently
offering a glass of water. She had seen this agitation before, and knew
there was a leaf in “Uncle Tom’s” history that he did not wish every
vulgar eye to read.
As for Mary Monson, she went into her cell, like one who declined any
further communication with her counsel. Timms was struck with her lofty
and decided manner; but stood too much in awe of her, to interpose a
remonstrance. After a few minutes taken by Dunscomb to regain his
self-command, and a brief consultation together, the two lawyers quitted
the prison. All this time, the accused remained in her cell, in
resentful silence, closely and anxiously watched by the searching eye of
her senior attendant.
[Illustration]