CHAPTER II.

The Sentence.

John Smith—­for the prisoner was known by no other name—­lay in prison until the time for him trial.  He had not long to wait, but he made no complaint.  He seemed perfectly at his ease—­much more so than was Mr. Kent.  In vain the good magistrate said to himself that it was no business of his; that he had nothing whatever to do with the case, he had simply performed his duty—­done what was required of him.  Yet he could not feel satisfied; he was sure there was a mystery, and he longed to fathom it.

He resolved to go and see the young man, and ask him more questions, to try to ascertain who he really was.  He went to his cell and the prisoner looked at him in utter surprise.

“I have come purposely,” said Mr. Kent, “to see if I cannot induce you to tell the truth over this affair.  I will call you John Smith, if you like, yet I am sure you are a gentleman; you will not deny that?”

“I neither admit nor deny anything,” was the smiling reply; “I have made up my mind that there will be a certain punishment, and I shall go through it like a brave man.”

“Have you well considered what degradation that punishment will bring upon you as long as you live?”

His face flushed hotly.

“Since you ask me,” he answered, “I tell you frankly, no; I had not thought of that part of the business at all—­it never even occurred to me; my thoughts were all otherwise engrossed.”

“You should take it into consideration,” said the magistrate.  “I know nothing of what your position in society may be, but remember, you voluntarily cut yourself off from all association with even respectable people; a man who has been in prison cannot expect the countenance or fellowship of his fellow-men.”

“I suppose you are right,” replied the young man; “although, believe me, never a thought of this occurred to me.”

“Now, would it not be better to tell the truth?  Have you done it for a wager? is it the trick of a foolish young man? or were you really tempted to steal the watch?”

Something like a smile curved his handsome lips.

“I cannot tell you,” he replied.  “I am deeply grateful for your kind interest—­indeed, 1 shall never forget it; but I cannot, in return, tell you one word.”

“Then I can do nothing to help you?”

“No,” he answered slowly; “you could not help sending me for trial.  Will you tell me what the probable result will be, supposing, as a matter of course, that I am found guilty?”

“Most probably, six months imprisonment, without hard labor, if it be a first offence.”

“It is the first of its kind,” was the smiling reply.

“You will not let me help you, then, in any way?” said Mr. Kent.

“There is nothing you can do for me,” said the young man, gratefully.

“If you take my advice,” continued the magistrate, “you will send for some clever lawyer; tell him the truth, whatever it may be, and while preserving your incognito, he may be able to do something for you.  I should certainly do so in your place.”