In those days, and until Mr., now Sir, Robert Peel’s amendment of the criminal law and practice of this country, the acceptor of a bill of exchange, on the principle that he was interested in denying the genuineness of the signature, could not, according to the English law of evidence, be called, on the part of the prosecution, to prove the forgery; and of course, after what had taken place, we did not propose to call Hornby for the defence.  The evidence for the crown consisted, therefore, on the day of trial, of the testimony of persons acquainted with Hornby’s signature, that the acceptance across the inculpated bill was not in his handwriting.  Burton’s behavior at the bank, in endeavoring to repossess himself of the bill by violence, was of course detailed, and told heavily against him.

All the time this testimony was being given, Hornby sat on one of the front seats of the crowded court, exulting in the visible accomplishment of his Satanic device.  We could see but little of his face, which, supported on his elbow, was partially concealed by a handkerchief he held in his hand; but I, who narrowly observed him, could occasionally discern flashes from under his pent brows—­revealments of the fierce struggle which raged within.

The moment at last arrived for the prisoner, whose eyes had been for some time fixed on Hornby, to speak or read his defence, and a breathless silence pervaded the court.

Burton started at the summons, like a man unexpectedly recalled to a sense of an imperious, but for the moment forgotten, duty.

“James Hornby!” he suddenly cried with a voice which rang through the assembly like a trumpet, “stand up, and if you can face an innocent man”—­

Hornby, surprised out of his self-possession, mechanically obeyed the strange order, sprang involuntarily to his feet, let fall the handkerchief that had partially concealed his features, and nervously confronted the prisoner.

“Look at me, I say,” continued Burton with increasing excitement; “and as you hope to escape the terrors of the last judgment, answer truly:  did you not, with your own hand, and in my presence, sign that bill?”—­

“This cannot be permitted,” interrupted the judge.

“If you do not speak,” proceeded the prisoner, heedless of the intimation from the bench; “or if you deny the truth, my life, as sure as there is a God in heaven, will be required at your hands.  If, in consequence of your devilish plotting, these men consign me to a felon’s grave, I shall not be cold in it when you will be calling upon the mountains to fall and cover you from the vengeance of the Judge of heaven and earth!  Speak, man—­save me:  save your own soul from mortal peril whilst there is yet time for mercy and repentance!”

Hornby’s expression of surprise and confusion had gradually changed during this appeal to its usual character of dogged impassibility.  He turned calmly and appealingly towards the bench.