He then looked around him with singular composure, and ultimately at the judge, as if to ascertain whether he might depart or not.  At this moment, a pale, sickly-looking female, aided, or rather supported, by the Pedlar and Hanlon, was in the act of approaching the place where Dalton’s attorney stood, as if to make some communication to him, when a scream was heard, followed by the exclamation—­

“Blessed Heaven! it’s himself!—­it’s himself!”

Order and silence were immediately called by the crier, but the Prophet’s eyes had been already attracted to the woman, who was no other than Hanlon’s aunt, and for some time he looked at her with an apparent sensation of absolute terror.  Gradually, however, his usual indomitable hardness of manner returned to him; he still kept his gaze fixed upon her, as if to make certain that there could be no mistake, after which his countenance assumed an expression of rage and malignity that no language could describe; his teeth became absolutely locked, as if he could have ground her between them, and his eyes literally blazed with fury, that resembled that of a rabid beast of prey.  The shock was evidently more than the woman could bear, who, still supported by the Pedlar and Planlon, withdrew in a state almost bordering on insensibility.

A very brief space now determined the trial.  Sullivan’s brother and several of the jurors themselves clearly established his identity, and as a matter of course, Condy Dalton was instantly discharged.  His appearance in the street was hailed by the cheers and acclamations of the people, who are in general delighted with the acquittal of a fellow-creature, unless under circumstances of very atrocious criminality.

“I suppose I may go down,” said the Prophet,—­“you have done with me?”

“Not exactly,” replied Dalton’s counsel.

“Let these two men be taken into custody,” said the judge, “and let an indictment for perjury be prepared against them, and sent to the grand jury forthwith.”

“My lord,” proceeded the counsel, “we are, we think, in a capacity to establish a much graver charge against M’Gowan—­a charge of murder, my lord, discovered, under circumstances little short of providential.”

In short, not to trouble the reader with, the dry details of the courts, after some discussion, it was arranged that two bills should be prepared and sent up—­one for perjury, and the other for the murder of a carman, named Peter Magennis, almost at the very spot where it had, until then, been supposed that poor Dalton had murdered Bartholomew Sullivan.  The consequence was, that Donnel, or Donald M’Gowan, the Black Prophet, found himself in the very dock where Dalton had stood the preceding day.  His case, whether as regarded the perjury or the murder, was entitled to no clemency, beyond that which the letter of the law strictly allowed.  The judge assigned him counsel, with whom he was permitted to communicate; and he himself, probably supposing that his chance of escape was then greater than if more time were allowed to procure and arrange evidence against him, said he was ready and willing, without further notice, to be brought to trial.