A crowd of anxious persons have gathered about the door, making the very air resound with their shouts of derision.  Hans Von Vickeinsteighner, his fat good-natured face shining like a pumpkin on a puncheon, and his red cap dangling above the motley faces of the crowd, moves glibly about, and says they are having a right jolly good time at the law business within.

Fetter, again taking his seat, apologises to the jury, to the persons present, and to his learned brother, Felsh.  He is very sorry for this ebullition of passion; but they may be assured it was called forth by the gross insult offered to all present.  “Continue the witnesses as fast as possible,” he concludes, with a methodical bow.

Mr. Monsel steps forward:  he relates the fierce attempt made upon his life; has no doubt the prisoner meant to kill him, and raise an insurrection.  “It is quite enough; Mr. Monsel may stand down,” interposes Felsh, with an air of dignity.

Paul Vampton, an intelligent negro, next bears testimony.  The criminal at the bar (Paul does not believe he has a drop of negro blood in his veins) more than once told him his wife and children were sold from him, his rights stripped from him, the hopes of gaining his freedom for ever gone.  Having nothing to live for, he coveted death, because it was more honourable to die in defence of justice, than live the crawling slave of a tyrant’s rule.

“I feel constrained to stop the case, gentlemen of the jury,” interposes his honour, rising from his seat.  “The evidence already adduced is more than sufficient to establish the conviction.”

A juror at Terrance M’Quade’s right, touches that gentleman on the shoulder:  he had just cooled away into a nice sleep:  “I think so, too, yer ’oner,” rejoins Terrance, in half bewilderment, starting nervously and rubbing his eyes.

A few mumbled words from his honour serve as a charge to the jury.  They know the law, and have the evidence before them.  “I see not, gentlemen, how you can render a verdict other than guilty; but that, let me here say, I shall leave to your more mature deliberation.”  With these concluding remarks his honour sips his mixture, and sits down.

Gentlemen of the jury rise from their seats, and form into a circle; Mr. Felsh coolly turns over the leaves of the statutes; the audience mutter to themselves; the prisoner stares vacantly over the scene, as if heedless of the issue.

“Guilty! it’s that we’ve made it; and the divil a thing else we could make out of it,” exclaims Terrance M’Quade, as they, after the mature length of two minutes’ consultation, turn and face his honour.  They pause for a reply.

“Stand up, prisoner!”

“Hats off during the sentence!” rejoins a constable.

“Guilty.”  His honour rises to his feet with ponderous dignity to pronounce the awful sentence.  “Gentlemen, I must needs compliment your verdict; you could have come to no other.”  His honour bows gracefully to the jury, reminds gentlemen present of the solemn occasion, and will hear what the prisoner has to say for himself.