“Mr. Folliard,” said he, “you may withdraw now.  Your daughter loved, as what woman has not?  There stands the object of her affections, and I appeal to your own feelings whether any living woman could be blamed for loving such a man.  You may go down, sir, for the present.”

The prosecuting counsel then said:  “My lord, we produce Miss Folliard herself to bear testimony against this man.  Crier, let Helen Folliard be called.”

Now was the moment of intense and incredible interest.  There was the far-famed beauty herself, to appear against her manly lover.  The stir in the court, the expectation, the anxiety to see her, the stretching of necks, the pressure of one over another, the fervor of curiosity, was such as the reader may possibly conceive, but such certainly as we cannot attempt to describe.  She advanced from a side door, deeply veiled; but the tall and majestic elegance of her figure not only struck all hearts with admiration, but prepared them for the inexpressible beauty with which the whole kingdom rang.  She was assisted to the table, and helped into the witness’s chair by her father, who seemed to triumph in her appearance there.  On taking her seat, the buzz and murmur of the spectators became hushed into a silence like that of death, and, until she spoke, a feather might have been heard falling in the court.

“Miss Folliard,” said the judge, in a most respectful voice, “you are deeply veiled—­but perhaps you are not aware that, in order to give evidence in a court of justice, your veil should be up; will you have the goodness to raise it?”

Deliberately and slowly she raised it, as the court had desired her—­but, oh! what an effulgence of beauty, what wonderful brilliancy, what symmetry, what radiance, what tenderness, what expression!

But we feel that to attempt the description of that face, which almost had divinity stamped upon it, is beyond all our powers.  The whole court, every spectator, man and woman, all for a time were mute, whilst their hearts drank in the delicious draught of admiration which such beauty created.  After having raised her veil, she looked around the court with a kind of wonder, after which her eyes rested on Reilly, and immediately her lids dropped, for she feared that she had done wrong in looking upon him.  This made many of those hearts who were interested in his fate sink, and wonder why such treachery should be associated with features that breathed only of angelic goodness and humanity.

“Miss Folliard,” said the leading counsel engaged against Reilly, “I am happy to hear that you regret some past occurrences that took place with respect to you and the prisoner at the bar.”

“Yes,” she replied, in a voice that was melody itself, “I do regret them.”

Fox kept his eye fixed upon her, after which he whispered something to one or two of his brother lawyers; they shook their heads, and immediately set themselves to hear and note her examination.