“No one, may it please your honor, and you, gentlemen, now presiding over my fate, can be more conscious than myself, from the nature of the evidence given in this case, of the utter hopelessness of any defence which may be offered on my behalf.  But, while recognising, in their fullest force, the strong circumstantial proofs of crime which you have heard, I may be permitted to deny for myself what my counsel has been pleased to admit for me.  To say that I have not been guilty of this crime, is only to repeat that which was said when I threw myself upon the justice of the country.  I denied any knowledge of it then—­I deny any knowledge of, or participation in it, now.  I am not guilty of this killing, whether with or without justification.  The blood of the unfortunate man Forrester is not upon my hands; and, whatever may be your decree this day, of this sweet consciousness nothing can deprive me.”

“I consider, may it please your honor, that my counsel, having virtually abandoned my cause, I have the right to go on with it myself—­”

But Pippin, who had been dreadfully impatient heretofore, started forward with evident alarm.

“Oh, no—­no, your honor—­my client—­Mr. Colleton—­how can you think such a thing?  I have not, your honor, abandoned the case.  On the contrary, your honor will remember that it was while actually proceeding with the case that I was interrupted.”

The youth, with a singular degree of composure, replied:—­

“Your honor will readily understand me, though the gentleman of the bar does not.  I conceive him not only to have abandoned the case, your honor, but actually to have joined hand and hand with the prosecuting counsel.  It is true, sir, that he still calls himself my counsel—­and still, under that name, presumes to harangue, as he alleges, in my behalf; but, when he violates the truth, not less than my instructions—­when he declares all that is alleged against me in that paper to be true, all of which I declare to be false—­when he admits me to be guilty of a crime of which I am not guilty—­I say that he has not only abandoned my case, but that he has betrayed the trust reposed in him.  What, your honor, must the jury infer from the confession which he has just made?—­what, but that in my conference with him I have made the same confession?  It becomes necessary, therefore, may it please your honor, not only that I take from him, thus openly, the power which I confided to him, but that I call upon your honor to demand from him, upon oath, whether such an admission was ever made to him by me.  I know that my own words will avail me nothing here—­I also know why they should not—­but I am surely entitled to require that he should speak out, as to the truth, when his misrepresentations are to make weight against me in future.  His oath, that I made no such confession to him, will avail nothing for my defence, but will avail greatly