forth from those lips just now so eloquent,—­checking their eloquence, alas, forever!  It was quickly reported through the assembly that the speaker had ruptured one of the larger blood-vessels in the lungs.  The accident was too dangerous for delay, and George ——­ was borne almost insensible from the scene of his struggles and his triumphs, to reenter, as it proved, no more.  He lived but three days longer,—­long enough, however, to learn that he had sacrificed his life in vain, the jury having, after a lengthened consideration, affirmed the former verdict against his friend and client.

The unfortunate man stood up to receive this second sentence with the same face of impassive misery with which he had listened to the first.  To the solemn mockery, “If he had anything to urge why sentence of death should not be passed upon him,” he shook his head wearily, and answered, “Nothing.”  It was evident that his mind was failing fast under the overwhelming weight of calamity.  It was sad to see this high-born, but ill-fated gentleman thus bowing humbly to a felon’s doom; and the remembrance of that scene must have been a life-long remorse to his judges, when the events of a few weeks revealed to them the terrible truth, that he was innocent of the crime for which they had condemned him.

We will not dwell upon the events alluded to; for even at the distance of nearly three-quarters of a century they are too painful and humiliating.  Suffice it to say, that, when the murderess discovered that her beloved master was to suffer for her crime, and that no other chance of salvation remained, she made a full confession of the whole matter.  But the sentence had been pronounced, and the power of suspending its execution rested with the Governor; and that dignitary—­let his name, in charity, remain unsaid—­was about to be a candidate for reelection to the office which he disgraced, while the family of the murdered lady was one of the most extensive and influential in the State, the whole of which influence was thrown into the scale against mercy and justice.  With what result was seen, when, on the morning of the ——­ of April, 17—­, the prison-doors were opened for the last time for his passage, and Cyril Wilde was led forth to the execution of an iniquitous sentence, though, even while the sad cart was moving slowly, very slowly, through the crowded, strangely silent street, some of the very men who had pronounced it were imploring the Governor almost on their knees that it might be stayed.  The prisoner alone seemed impatient to hasten the reluctant march, and meet the final catastrophe.  He knew of the efforts that were making to save him, and the confession on which they were founded.  He had listened to hopeful words and confident predictions; but no expression of hope had thereby been kindled for an instant on his pale, dejected face.  The ominous premonition which had come upon him at the moment of that first overpowering realization of his danger continued to