“And pray, may I ask, which was the favoured lover?” went on the barrister.

A look of indignation for an instant contracted Mary’s brow.  She was aware that Jem had raised his head and was gazing at her.  Turning towards the judge, she said steadily, “Perhaps I liked Mr. Harry Carson once; but I loved James Wilson beyond what tongue can tell.  When he asked me to marry him, I was very hard in my answer; but he’d not been gone out of my sight above a minute before I knew I loved him—­far above my life.”

After these words the prisoner’s head was no longer bowed.  He stood erect and firm, with self-respect in his attitude; yet he seemed lost in thought.

But Will Wilson did not come, and the evidence against Jem grew stronger and stronger.  Mary was flushed and anxious, muttering to herself in a wild, restless manner.  Job Legh heard her repeat again and again, “I must not go mad; I must not!”

Suddenly she threw up her arms and shrieked aloud:  “Oh, Jem!  Jem!  You’re saved! and I am mad!” and was carried out of court stiff and convulsed.  And as they bore her off, a sailor forced his way over rails and seats, through turnkeys and policemen.  Will Wilson had come in time.

He told his tale clearly and distinctly; the efforts of the prosecution to shake him were useless.  “Not guilty” was the verdict that thrilled through the breathless court.  One man sank back in his seat in sickening despair.  The vengeance that old Mr. Carson had longed to compass for the murder of his beloved boy was thwarted; he had been cheated of the desire that now ruled his life—­the desire of blood for blood.

V.—­“Forgive Us Our Trespasses”

For many days Mary hovered between life and death, and it was long ere she could make the journey back to Manchester under the tender care of the man who now knew she loved him.  Not until she had recovered did he tell her that he had lost his situation at the foundry—­the men refused to work under one who had been tried for murder—­and that he was looking for work elsewhere.

“Mary,” he asked, “art thou much bound to Manchester?  Would it grieve thee sore to quit the old smoke-jack?”

“With thee?” was her quiet response.

“I’ve heard fine things of Canada.  Thou knowest where Canada is, Mary?”

“Not rightly—­but with thee, Jem”—­her voice sank to a whisper—­“anywhere.”  Then, after a pause, she added, “But father!”

John Barton was smitten, helpless, very near to death.  His face was sunk and worn—­like a skull, with yet a suffering expression that skulls have not!  Crime and all had been forgotten by his daughter when she saw him; fondly did she serve him in every way that heart could devise.

Jem had known from the first that Barton was the murderer of Harry Carson.  Several days before the murder Barton had borrowed Jem’s gun, and Jem had seen the truth at the moment of his arrest.  When Mary came to tell him that her father wished to speak to him, Jem could not guess what was before him, and did not try to guess.