Everybody in the court room knew Mr. Braham, the great criminal lawyer, and he was not unaware that he was the object of all eyes as he moved to his place, bowing to his friends in the bar.  A large but rather spare man, with broad shoulders and a massive head, covered with chestnut curls which fell down upon his coat collar and which he had a habit of shaking as a lion is supposed to shake his mane.  His face was clean shaven, and he had a wide mouth and rather small dark eyes, set quite too near together:  Mr. Braham wore a brown frock coat buttoned across his breast, with a rose-bud in the upper buttonhole, and light pantaloons.  A diamond stud was seen to flash from his bosom; and as he seated himself and drew off his gloves a heavy seal ring was displayed upon his white left hand.  Mr. Braham having seated himself, deliberately surveyed the entire house, made a remark to one of his assistants, and then taking an ivory-handled knife from his pocket began to pare his finger nails, rocking his chair backwards and forwards slowly.

A moment later Judge O’Shaunnessy entered at the rear door and took his seat in one of the chairs behind the bench; a gentleman in black broadcloth, with sandy hair, inclined to curl, a round; reddish and rather jovial face, sharp rather than intellectual, and with a self-sufficient air.  His career had nothing remarkable in it.  He was descended from a long line of Irish Kings, and he was the first one of them who had ever come into his kingdom—­the kingdom of such being the city of New York.  He had, in fact, descended so far and so low that he found himself, when a boy, a sort of street Arab in that city; but he had ambition and native shrewdness, and he speedily took to boot-polishing, and newspaper hawking, became the office and errand boy of a law firm, picked up knowledge enough to get some employment in police courts, was admitted to the bar, became a rising young politician, went to the legislature, and was finally elected to the bench which he now honored.  In this democratic country he was obliged to conceal his royalty under a plebeian aspect.  Judge O’Shaunnessy never had a lucrative practice nor a large salary but he had prudently laid away money-believing that a dependant judge can never be impartial—­and he had lands and houses to the value of three or four hundred thousand dollars.  Had he not helped to build and furnish this very Court House?  Did he not know that the very “spittoon” which his judgeship used cost the city the sum of one thousand dollars?

As soon as the judge was seated, the court was opened, with the “oi yis, oi yis” of the officer in his native language, the case called, and the sheriff was directed to bring in the prisoner.  In the midst of a profound hush Laura entered, leaning on the arm of the officer, and was conducted to a seat by her counsel.  She was followed by her mother and by Washington Hawkins, who were given seats near her.