There was nothing now to delay the action of the court.  The counsel had closed with the argument, and the judge proceeded in his charge to the jury.  His remarks were rather favorable than otherwise to the prisoner.  He dwelt upon his youth—­his manliness—­the seeming excellence of his education, and the propriety which had marked his whole behavior on trial.  These he spoke of as considerations which must, of course, make the duty, which they had to perform, more severely painful to all.  But they could not do away with the strong and tenacious combination of circumstances against him.  These were all closely knit, and all tended strongly to the conviction of the guilt of the accused.  Still they were circumstantial; and the doubts of the jury were, of course, so many arguments on the side of mercy.  He concluded.

But the jury had no doubts.  How should they doubt?  They deliberated, indeed, for form’s sake, but not long.  In a little while they returned to their place, and the verdict was read by the clerk.

“Guilty.”

“Guilty,” responded the prisoner, and for a moment his head dropped upon his clasped hands, and his frame shivered as with an ague.

“Guilty—­guilty—­Oh, my father—­Edith—­Edith—­have I lived for this?”

There was no other sign of human weakness.  He arose with composure, and followed, with firm step, the officer to his dungeon.  His only thought was of the sorrows and the shame of others—­of those of whom he had been the passion and the pride—­of that father’s memory and name, of whom he had been the cherished hope—­of that maiden of whom he had been the cherished love.  His firm, manly bearing won the esteem of all those who, nevertheless, at the same moment, had few if any doubts of the justice of his doom.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

PRAYERS AND PROMISES.

Ralph Colleton was once more in his dungeon—­alone and without hope.  For a moment during the progress of his trial, and at the appearance of Lucy, he deemed it possible that some providential fortune might work a change in the aspect of things, favorable to his escape from what, to his mind, was far worse than any thought of death, in the manner of his death.  But when, after a moment of reflection, he perceived that the feminine delicacy of the maiden must suffer from any further testimony from her lips—­when he saw that, most probably, in the minds of all who heard her narration, the circumstance of her appearance in his chamber and at such an hour of the night, and for any object, would be fatal to her reputation—­when he perceived this consciousness, too, weighing down even to agony the soul of the still courageous witness—­the high sense of honor which had always prompted him, not less than that chivalrous consideration of the sex taught in the south among the earliest lessons of society to its youth—­compelled him to interpose, and prevent, if possible, all further utterance, which, though possibly all-important to him, would be fatally destructive to her.