Some persons declare the bill of sale a forgery,—­that Romescos has tried that very same trick twice before.  Others say it matters but little on that score,—­that all the law in the country won’t restrain Graspum; if he sets at it in good earnest he can turn any sort of people into property.  A third whispers that the present order of things must be changed, or nobody’s children will be safe.  Legal gentlemen, not interested in the suit, shake their heads, and successively whisper, “The prosecution never came by that bill of sale honestly.”  Creditors, not parties to this suit, and brokers who now and then do something in the trade of human beings, say, “If this be the way Marston’s going to play the dodge with his property, we will see if there be not some more under the same shaded protection.”

“Will the counsel for the defence permit his client to inspect this instrument?” says the learned gentleman, passing it across the table.

Marston’s face flushes with shame; he is overcome; he extends his trembling hand and takes the fatal document.  It is, to him, his children’s death-warrant.  A cloud of darkness overshadows his hopes; he would question the signature, but the signer, Silenus, is dead,—­as dead as the justice of the law by which the children are being tried.  And there is the bond attached to it!  Again the thought flashed through his mind, that he had sold Ellen Juvarna to Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy.  However much he might struggle to save his children-however much a father’s obligations might force themselves upon him-however much he might acknowledge them the offspring of his own body, they were property in the law-property in the hands of Graspum; and, with the forethought of that honourable gentleman opposed to him—­as it evidently was—­his efforts and pleadings would not only prove futile, but tend to expose Lorenzo’s crime.

“The philosophy of the thing is coming out, just as I said-precisely,” ejaculates Mr. Scranton, raising his methodical eyes, and whispering to a legal gentleman who sits at his right.

“Serious philosophy, that embraces and sanctions the sale of such lovely children,—­making property of one’s children against his wishes!  I’m a great Southern rights man, but this is shaving the intermixture a little too close,” rejoins the other, casting a solicitous look at Marston, who has been intently and nervously examining the bill of sale.

“Any objections to make to it?” says the learned gentleman, bowing politely and extending his hand, as he concludes by inquiring how it happened, in the face of such an array of evidence, that he sold the girl, Ellen Juvarna?

“No objection, none!” is Marston’s quick response.  His head droops; he wipes the tears from his eyes; he leaves the court in silence, amid murmurs from the crowd.  The female witnesses left before him; it was well they did so.