Tortured with indignation and shame, at the insults heaped upon her, yet sternly resolved to endure silently, these nights were veritable stations along her Via Dolorosa; and fortified her for the daily flagellation in front of the jury-box.

On Thursday a slow, sleeting rain enveloped the world in a gray cowl, bristling with ice needles; yet when Judge Parkman took his seat at nine o’clock, there was a perceptible increase in the living mass, packed in every available inch of space.

For the first time, Mr. Dunbar’s seat between his colleagues was vacant; and Mr. Churchill and Mr. Wolverton were conversing in an animated whisper.

Clad in mourning garments, and with a long crape veil put back from her face, the prisoner was escorted to her accustomed place; and braced by a supreme effort for the critical hour, which she felt assured was at hand, her pale set features gleamed like those of a marble statue shrouded in black.

Called to the stand, Simon Frisby testified that “he was telegraph operator, and night train despatcher for railway in X—.  On October the twenty-sixth, had just gone on duty at 8 P.M. at the station, when prisoner came in, and sent a telegram to New York.  A copy of that message had been surrendered to the District Solicitor.  Witness had remained all night in his office, which adjoined the ladies’ waiting-room, and his attention having been attracted by the unusual fact that it was left open and lighted, he had twice gone to the door and looked in, but saw no one.  Thought the last inspection was about two o’clock, immediately after he had sent a message to the conductor on train No. 4.  Saw prisoner when she came in, a half hour later, and heard the conversation between her and Burk, the station agent.  Was very positive prisoner could not have been in the ladies’ waiting-room during the severe storm.”

Mr. Churchill read aloud the telegram addressed to Mrs. Ignace Brentano:  “Complete success required delay.  All will be satisfactory.  Expect me Saturday.  B. B.”

He commented on its ambiguous phraseology, sent the message to the jury for inspection, and resumed his chair.

“Lennox Dunbar.”

Sister Serena’s knitting fell from her fingers; Dyce groaned audibly, and Judge Dent, sitting quite near, uttered a heavy sigh.  The statue throbbed into life, drew herself proudly up; and with a haughty poise of the head, her grand eloquent gray eyes looked up at the witness, and for the first time during the trial bore a challenge.  For fully a moment, eye met eye, soul looked into soul, with only a few feet of space dividing prisoner from witness; and as the girl scanned the dark, resolute, sternly chiselled face, cold, yet handsome as some faultless bronze god, a singular smile unbent her frozen lips, and Judge Dent and Sister Serena wondered what the scarcely audible ejaculation meant: 

“At the mercy of Tiberius!”

No faintest reflection of the fierce pain at his heart could have been discerned on that non-committal countenance; and as he turned to the jury, his swart magnetic face appeared cruelly hard, sinister.