Page 139 of 896

His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she

sat by him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to

him, in her dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner.

Her forehead had been strikingly expressive of an engrossing

terror and compassion that saw nothing but the peril of the

accused. This had been so very noticeable, so very powerfully and

naturally shown, that starers who had had no pity for him were

touched by her; and the whisper went about, "Who are they?"

Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his

own manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in

his absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The

crowd about him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the

nearest attendant, and from him it had been more slowly pressed

and passed back; at last it got to Jerry:

"Witnesses."

"For which side?"

"Against."

"Against what side?"

"The prisoner's."