“She did not know, except that she wished to get home.”

“Did she keep company with a man of the name of Pearce?”

“She had walked out with him once or twice.”

“When was the last time?”

“She did not remember.”

“Did Pearce walk with her home on the night of the murder?”

“No.”

“Not part of the way?”

“Yes; part of the way.”

“Did Pearce sometimes wear a black, shiny hat?”

“No—­yes:  she did not remember.”

“Where was Pearce now?”

“She didn’t know.”

“Had he disappeared since that Sunday evening?”

“She didn’t know.”

“Had she seen him since?”

“No.”

“Had Mr. Wilson ever threatened to discharge her for insolence to Mrs. Armstrong?”

“Yes; but she knew he was not in earnest.”

“Was not the clasp-knife that had been found always left in the kitchen for culinary purposes?”

“No—­not always; generally—­but not this time that Armstrong went away, she was sure.”

“Mary Strugnell, you be a false-sworn woman before God and man!” interrupted the male prisoner with great violence of manner.

The outbreak of the prisoner was checked and rebuked by the judge, and the cross-examination soon afterwards closed.  Had the counsel been allowed to follow up his advantage by an address to the jury, he would, I doubt not, spite of their prejudices against the prisoners, have obtained an acquittal; but as it was, after a neutral sort of charge from the judge, by no means the ablest that then adorned the bench, the jurors, having deliberated for something more than half an hour, returned into court with a verdict of “guilty” against both prisoners, accompanying it, however, with a strong recommendation to mercy!

“Mercy!” said the judge.  “What for?  On what ground?”

The jurors stared at each other and at the judge:  they had no reason to give!  The fact was, their conviction of the prisoners’ guilt had been very much shaken by the cross-examination of the chief witness for the prosecution, and this recommendation was a compromise which conscience made with doubt.  I have known many such instances.

The usual ridiculous formality of asking the wretched convicts what they had to urge why sentence should not be passed upon them was gone through; the judge, with unmoved feelings, put on the fatal cap; and then a new and startling light burst upon the mysterious, bewildering affair.

“Stop, my lord!” exclaimed Armstrong with rough vehemence.  “Hear me speak!  I’ll tell ye all about it; I will indeed, my lord.  Quiet, Martha, I tell ye.  It’s I, my lord, that’s guilty, not the woman.  God bless ye, my lord; not the wife!  Doant hurt the wife, and I’se tell ye all about it.  I alone am guilty; not, the Lord be praised, of murder, but of robbery!”

“John!—­John!” sobbed the wife, clinging passionately to her husband, “let us die together!”