The sessions were at last on:  a “true bill” against Esther Mason for shoplifting, as it was popularly termed, was unhesitatingly found, and with a heavy heart I wended my way to the court to watch the proceedings.  A few minutes after I entered, Mr. Justice Le Blanc and Mr. Baron Wood, who had assisted at an important case of stockjobbing conspiracy, just over, left the bench:  the learned recorder being doubtless considered quite equal to the trial of a mere capital charge of theft.

The prisoner was placed in the dock; but try as I might, I could not look at her.  It happened to be a calm bright summer day; the air, as if in mockery of those death-sessions, humming with busy, lusty life; so that, sitting with my back to the prisoner, I could, as it were, read her demeanor in the shadow thrown by her figure on the opposite sun-lighted wall.  There she stood, during the brief moments which sealed her earthly doom, with downcast eyes and utterly dejected posture; her thin fingers playing mechanically with the flowers and sweet-scented herbs spread scantily before her.  The trial was very brief:  the evidence, emphatically conclusive, was confidently given, and vainly cross-examined.  Nothing remained but an elaborate ad misericordiam excusative defence, which had been prepared by me, and which the prisoner begged her counsel might be allowed to read.  This was of course refused; the recorder remarking, they might as well allow counsel for felons to address juries, as read defences; and that, as every practical man knew, would be utterly subversive of the due administration of justice.  The clerk of the court would read the paper, if the prisoner felt too agitated to do so.  This was done; and very vilely done.  The clerk, I dare say, read as well as he was able; but old, near-sighted, and possessed of anything but a clear enunciation, what could be expected?  The defence, so read, produced not the slightest effect either on the court or jury.  The recorder briefly commented on the conclusiveness of the evidence for the prosecution; and the jury, in the same brief, business-like manner, returned a verdict of Guilty.

“What have you to say,” demanded the clerk, “why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon you, according to law?”

The shadow started convulsively as the terrible words fell from the man’s lips; and I saw that the suddenly-upraised eyes of the prisoner were fastened on the face of the fearful questioner.  The lips, too, appeared to move; but no sound reached my ears.

“Speak, woman,” said the recorder; “if you have anything to urge before sentence is pronounced.”

I started up, and turning to the prisoner, besought her in hurried accents to speak.  “Remind them of the infant at your breast—­your husband”—­

“Who is that conferring with the prisoner?” demanded the judge in an angry voice.

I turned, and confronted him with a look as cold and haughty as his own.  He did not think proper to pursue the inquiry further; and after muttering something about the necessity of not interrupting the proceedings of the court, again asked the prisoner if she had anything to urge.