“Gentlemen,” said that officer, after having cast his eye over it, “have you agreed in your verdict?”

“We have.”

“Is the prisoner at the bar guilty, or not guilty?”

“Guilty!”

Let us pause here a moment, and reflect upon the precarious tenure of life, as it is frequently affected by such scenes as the above, in the administration of justice.  Here was a criminal of the deepest dye, shivering in the dock with the natural apprehension of his fate, but supported, notwithstanding, by the delay of the jury in coming to a verdict.  He argued reasonably enough, that in consequence of that very delay he must necessarily have friends among them who would hold out to the last.  The state of suspense, however, in which he was held must have been, and was, dreadful.  His lips and throat became parched by excitement, and he was obliged to drink three or four glasses of water.  Being unable to stand, he was accommodated with a chair, on which, while he sat, the perspiration flowed from his pallid face.  Yet, with the exception of his own clique, there was scarcely an individual present who did not hope that this trial would put an end to his career of blood.  After all, there was something of the retributive justice of Providence even in the conduct and feelings of the jury; for, in point of fact, it was more on account of his private crimes and private infamy that they, however wrongly, brought in their verdict.  Here was he, encircled by their knowledge of his own iniquities, apart from his public acts; and there, standing in that dock, from which he might have gone out free, so far as regarded his political exploits, he found, although he did not know it, the black weight of his private vices fall upon his head in the shape of the verdict just delivered.  It would be impossible to describe his appearance on hearing it; his head fell down upon his breast listless, helpless, and with a character of despair that was painful to contemplate.

When the verdict was handed down, the judge immediately put on the black-cap; but Whitecraft’s head was resting on his breast, and he did not for some time see it.  At length, stirred into something like life by the accents of the judge, he raised his head with an effort.  The latter addressed him as thus:  “Sir Robert Whitecraft, you have been convicted this day by as enlightened a jury as ever sat in a jury-box.  You must be aware yourself, by the length of time, and consequently the deep and serious investigation which they bestowed—­and, it is evident, painfully bestowed—­upon your unhappy case, that your conviction is the deliberate result of their conscientious opinion.  It is obvious, as I said, from the length of time occupied in the jury-room, that the evidence in your case was sifted closely, and canvassed with the ability and experience of able and honest men.  In the verdict they have returned the Court perfectly concurs; and it now only remains for me to pass upon you that awful sentence