The judge took his seat, and the order was given to bring the prisoner up for judgment.

There was a long pause.  The audience—­remembering his ghastly face when he first appeared before them—­whispered to each other, “He’s taken ill”; and the audience proved to be right.

The surgeon of the prison entered the witness-box, and, being duly sworn, made his medical statement.

The prisoner’s heart had been diseased for some time past, and the malady had been neglected.  He had fainted under the prolonged suspense of waiting for the verdict.  The swoon had proved to be of such a serious nature that the witness refused to answer for consequences if a second fainting-fit was produced by the excitement of facing the court and the jury.

Under these circumstances, the verdict was formally recorded, and sentence was deferred.  Once more, the spectators looked at the prisoner’s wife.

She had risen to leave the court.  In the event of an adverse verdict, her husband had asked for a farewell interview; and the governor of the prison, after consultation with the surgeon, had granted the request.  It was observed, when she retired, that she held her boy by the hand, and left the girl to follow.  A compassionate lady near her offered to take care of the children while she was absent.  Mrs. Westerfield answered quietly and coldly:  “Thank you—­their father wishes to see them.”

The prisoner was dying; nobody could look at him and doubt it.

His eyes opened wearily, when his wife and children approached the bed on which he lay helpless—­the wreck of a grandly-made man.  He struggled for breath, but he could still speak a word or two at a time.  “I don’t ask you what the verdict is,” he said to his wife; “I see it in your face.”

Tearless and silent, she waited by her husband’s side.  He had only noticed her for a moment.  All his interest seemed to be centered in his children.  The girl stood nearest to him, he looked at her with a faint smile.

The poor child understood him.  Crying piteously, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him.  “Dear papa,” she said; “come home and let me nurse you.”

The surgeon, watching the father’s face, saw a change in him which the other persons present had not observed.  The failing heart felt that parting moment, and sank under it.  “Take the child away,” the surgeon whispered to the mother.  Brandy was near him; he administered it while he spoke, and touched the fluttering pulse.  It felt, just felt, the stimulant.  He revived for a moment, and looked wistfully for his son.  “The boy,” he murmured; “I want my boy.”  As his wife brought the child to him, the surgeon whispered to her again.  “If you have anything to say to him be quick about it!” She shuddered; she took his cold hand.  Her touch seemed to nerve him with new strength; he asked her to stoop over him.  “They won’t let me write here,” he whispered, “unless they see my letter.”  He paused to get his breath again.  “Lift up my left arm,” he gasped.  “Open the wrist-band.”