One week had passed.  Sentence had been pronounced upon the young Italian, and, notwithstanding the strenuous efforts his friends made for his pardon, he was committed to prison to await the arrival of that day when innocence should suffer in the place of guilt, and he should by the rough hands of the law be unjustly dragged to the gallows, and meet his death at so wretched a place; yet far better was it for him, and of this was he aware, to be led to that place free, from the blood of all men, than to proceed there a guilty criminal, his hands dyed in the warm blood of a fellow-creature, pointed out as a murderer, and looked upon but with an eye of condemnation.  He was certain that in the breasts of hundreds a spark, yea, a burning flame, of pity shone for him,—­that he met not his death uncared for,—­that many a tear would flow in pity for him, and that he would wend his way to the scaffold comforted by the consciousness of his innocence, and consoled by many dear friends.

The day had arrived for the execution, and crowds of people flocked to the spot to gratify their love of sight-seeing-to allay their curiosity-even though that sight were nothing less than the death of a fellow-being.  Crowds had assembled.  A murder had been committed, and now another was to follow.  To be sure it was to be executed “according to law,” but that law was inspired with the spirit of revenge.  Its motto was “blood for blood.”  It forgot the precepts of Christ, “forgive your enemies;” and that that which is a wrong when committed by one in secret, is no less a wrong when committed by many, or by their sanction, in public.  The condemned stood upon the death-plank, yet he hoped justice would be done.  “Hope!” what a cheering word! ’t will nerve man for every trial.  Yes, Castello hoped, and relied upon that kind arm that had hitherto supported him, and had enabled him to bear up under an accumulated mass of affliction.  He had a full consciousness of innocence, and to the oft-repeated inquiry as to his state of mind he replied, “I am innocent, and that truth is to me better than gold.”

It lacks but five minutes of the appointed time-now but three-but two.  But yonder the crowd seem excited.  What is the cause of the sudden movement?  But a few moments since and all were silently gazing at the centre of attraction, the scaffold.  Lo, a messenger, breathless with haste, shouting “Innocent!  Innocent!  Innocent!” and a passage is made for him to approach, whilst thousands inquire the news.  He answers not, save by that shrill shout, “Innocent!” and pressing forward touches the gallows just as Castello is about to be launched forth.  The stranger ascends the steps and begs that the execution may be deferred, at least until he can relate some recent disclosures.  His wish is granted, and he speaks nearly as follows: