induce you to return a verdict rescuing me from what the foolish world, judging from appearances, will call a shameful death, but which I, knowing my own heart, feel to be sanctified by the highest motives which can influence man—­it would be merely waste of time to repeat them.  From the first moment, gentlemen, that this accusation was preferred against me, I felt that I had done with this world; and, young as I am, but for one beloved being whose presence lighted up and irradiated this else cold and barren earth, I should, with little reluctance, have accepted this gift of an apparently severe, but perhaps merciful fate.  This life, gentlemen,” he continued after a short pause, “it has been well said, is but a battle and a march.  I have been struck down early in the combat; but of what moment is that, if it be found by Him who witnesses the world-unnoticed deeds of all his soldiers, that I have earned the victor’s crown?  Let it be your consolation, gentlemen, if hereafter you should discover that you have sent me to an undeserved death, that you at least will not have hurried a soul spotted with the awful crime of murder before its Maker.  And oh,” he exclaimed in conclusion, with solemn earnestness, “may all who have the guilt of blood upon them hasten, whilst life is still granted them, to cleanse themselves by repentance of that foul sin, so that not only the sacrifice of one poor life, but that most holy and tremendous one offered in the world’s consummate hour, may not for them have been made in vain!  My lord and gentlemen, I have no more to say.  You will doubtless do your duty:  I have done mine.”

I was about, a few minutes after the conclusion of this strange and unexpected address, to call our witnesses to character, when, to the surprise of the whole court, and the consternation of the prisoner, Miss Carrington started up, threw aside her veil, and addressing the judge, demanded to be heard.

Queenly, graceful, and of touching loveliness did she look in her vehemence of sorrow—­radiant as sunlight in her days of joy she must have been—­as she stood up, affection-prompted, regardless of self, of the world, to make one last effort to save her affianced husband.

“What would you say, young lady?” said Mr. Justice Grose, kindly.  “If you have anything to testify in favor of the prisoner, you had better communicate with his counsel.”

“Not that—­not that,” she hurriedly replied, as if fearful that her strength would fail before she had enunciated her purpose.  “Put, my lord, put Frederick—­the prisoner, I mean—­on his oath.  Bid him declare, as he shall answer at the bar of Almighty God, who is the murderer for whom he is about to madly sacrifice himself, and you will then find”—­

“Your request is an absurd one,” interrupted the judge with some asperity.  “I have no power to question a prisoner.”

“Then,” shrieked the unfortunate lady, sinking back fainting and helpless in her father’s arms, “he is lost—­lost!”