intent and treated as a patient.  I admit that this is a plea which might well be abused.  It is a matter for discretion.  But here you have a case in which there is every reason to give the benefit of the doubt.  You heard me ask the prisoner what he thought of during those four fatal minutes.  What was his answer?  “I thought of Mr. Cokeson’s face!” Gentlemen, no man could invent an answer like that; it is absolutely stamped with truth.  You have seen the great affection [legitimate or not] existing between him and this woman, who came here to give evidence for him at the risk of her life.  It is impossible for you to doubt his distress on the morning when he committed this act.  We well know what terrible havoc such distress can make in weak and highly nervous people.  It was all the work of a moment.  The rest has followed, as death follows a stab to the heart, or water drops if you hold up a jug to empty it.  Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing more tragic in life than the utter impossibility of changing what you have done.  Once this cheque was altered and presented, the work of four minutes—­four mad minutes —­the rest has been silence.  But in those four minutes the boy before you has slipped through a door, hardly opened, into that great cage which never again quite lets a man go—­the cage of the Law.  His further acts, his failure to confess, the alteration of the counterfoil, his preparations for flight, are all evidence—­not of deliberate and guilty intention when he committed the prime act from which these subsequent acts arose; no—­they are merely evidence of the weak character which is clearly enough his misfortune.  But is a man to be lost because he is bred and born with a weak character?  Gentlemen, men like the prisoner are destroyed daily under our law for want of that human insight which sees them as they are, patients, and not criminals.  If the prisoner be found guilty, and treated as though he were a criminal type, he will, as all experience shows, in all probability become one.  I beg you not to return a verdict that may thrust him back into prison and brand him for ever.  Gentlemen, Justice is a machine that, when some one has once given it the starting push, rolls on of itself.  Is this young man to be ground to pieces under this machine for an act which at the worst was one of weakness?  Is he to become a member of the luckless crews that man those dark, ill-starred ships called prisons?  Is that to be his voyage-from which so few return?  Or is he to have another chance, to be still looked on as one who has gone a little astray, but who will come back?  I urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man!  For, as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irretrievable, stares him in the face.  He can be saved now.  Imprison him as a criminal, and I affirm to you that he will be lost.  He has neither the face nor the manner of one who can survive that terrible ordeal.  Weigh in the scales