When the prisoners were called on for their defence, they looked at one another for a moment as if neither wished to speak first; Ralph, however, began.  He had little to say.  Casting a look of defiance at Sir George and his lady, who sat in a side-gallery above the court, he freely confessed that hatred to the man who had injured him in his youth, and who had treated him with harshness on his return from abroad, had been the motive of his encouraging and aiding in these midnight depredations; he expressed sorrow for having occasioned trouble to his neighbor Harvey.  “What I can say will be of little use to me here,” said Martin Harvey, in a hollow voice; “I am ruined, beyond redress; but I was a very poor man when I first joined, with others, in snaring game; I often wanted bread, and saw my wife and child pinched for food also.  The rich people say game belongs to them; but—­well—­all I can say more is, that I take God to witness I never lifted a murderous gun against my fellow-man; he who did it has escaped; and I have suffered this broken limb—­but that I don’t mind—­I have worse than that to bear—­I have broken my wife’s heart, and my child will be left an orphan.”

His voice failed.  There was an uneasy movement among the audience:  and a lady, who had been leaning over the rails of the side-gallery listening with deep attention, fainted, and was carried out of court.  The prisoner’s pale wife, who had bowed her head behind him in silent endurance, heard a whisper among the bystanders that it was Lady Roberts, and a hope entered her mind that the lady’s tender heart might feel for them.

“Have you any witnesses to call?” asked the Judge.

Martin looked round with a vacant gaze; the attorney whispered to him, and beckoned to Alfred Gray.

Alfred went into the witness-box, and told of the honesty, sobriety, and good conduct of Martin Harvey, during all the years he was in his father’s house—­“He was there before I was born,” said the young man, “and only left when I was obliged to leave also, sixteen years after.  A better man never broke bread—­he was beloved by every body who knew him.  Till now his character was never tainted.  It’s the one black spot.”

The Judge commenced summing up; it was evident to all who had paid attention to the evidence, that the conviction of two of the prisoners was certain.  Alfred Gray knew this, and strove to induce the wife to leave with him before the fatal close of proceedings; but she shook her head and would not go.  “I shall have strength to bear it,” she said.

He sat down by her side, and heard the fearful verdict of “guilty” pronounced against her husband and Ralph Somers; and then the dreaded doom of transportation for life awarded to them.  As they turned to leave the dock, Martin looked down upon the crushed and broken-hearted being whom he had sworn to protect and cherish through life, and in spite of every effort to repress it, a cry of agony burst from his lips; it was answered by a fainter sound, and Alfred Gray lifted the helpless, lifeless woman from the ground, and carried her into the open air.