Adam had given a faint groan of despair while this witness was speaking.  He had hidden his face on his arm, which rested on the boarding in front of him.  It was the supreme moment of his suffering:  Hetty was guilty; and he was silently calling to God for help.  He heard no more of the evidence, and was unconscious when the case for the prosecution had closed—­unconscious that Mr. Irwine was in the witness-box, telling of Hetty’s unblemished character in her own parish and of the virtuous habits in which she had been brought up.  This testimony could have no influence on the verdict, but it was given as part of that plea for mercy which her own counsel would have made if he had been allowed to speak for her—­a favour not granted to criminals in those stern times.

At last Adam lifted up his head, for there was a general movement round him.  The judge had addressed the jury, and they were retiring.  The decisive moment was not far off Adam felt a shuddering horror that would not let him look at Hetty, but she had long relapsed into her blank hard indifference.  All eyes were strained to look at her, but she stood like a statue of dull despair.

’There was a mingled rustling, whispering, and low buzzing throughout the court during this interval.  The desire to listen was suspended, and every one had some feeling or opinion to express in undertones.  Adam sat looking blankly before him, but he did not see the objects that were right in front of his eyes—­the counsel and attorneys talking with an air of cool business, and Mr. Irwine in low earnest conversation with the judge—­did not see Mr. Irwine sit down again in agitation and shake his head mournfully when somebody whispered to him.  The inward action was too intense for Adam to take in outward objects until some strong sensation roused him.

It was not very long, hardly more than a quarter of an hour, before the knock which told that the jury had come to their decision fell as a signal for silence on every ear.  It is sublime—­that sudden pause of a great multitude which tells that one soul moves in them all.  Deeper and deeper the silence seemed to become, like the deepening night, while the jurymen’s names were called over, and the prisoner was made to hold up her hand, and the jury were asked for their verdict.

“Guilty.”

It was the verdict every one expected, but there was a sigh of disappointment from some hearts that it was followed by no recommendation to mercy.  Still the sympathy of the court was not with the prisoner.  The unnaturalness of her crime stood out the more harshly by the side of her hard immovability and obstinate silence.  Even the verdict, to distant eyes, had not appeared to move her, but those who were near saw her trembling.

The stillness was less intense until the judge put on his black cap, and the chaplain in his canonicals was observed behind him.  Then it deepened again, before the crier had had time to command silence.  If any sound were heard, it must have been the sound of beating hearts.  The judge spoke, “Hester Sorrel....”