little before the force of such evidence as stood arrayed against him.  And all men saw that unless an alibi could be proved, Thurston Willcoxen was lost!  Oh! for that alibi.  Paul Douglass was again undergoing an awful temptation.  Why, he asked himself, why should he not perjure his soul, and lose it, too, to save his brother’s life and honor from fatal wrong?  And if there had not been in Paul’s heart a love of truth greater than his fear of hell, his affection for Thurston would have triumphed, he would have perjured himself.

The defense here closed.  The State’s Attorney did not even deem it necessary to speak again, and the judge proceeded to charge the jury.  They must not, he said, be blinded by the social position, clerical character, youth, talents, accomplishments or celebrity of the prisoner—­with however dazzling a halo these might surround him.  They must deliberate coolly upon the evidence that had been laid before them, and after due consideration of the case, if there was a doubt upon their minds, they were to let the prisoner have the full benefit of it—­wherever there was the least uncertainty it was right to lean to the side of mercy.

The case was then given to the jury.  The jury did not leave their box, but counseled together in a low voice for half an hour, during which a death-like silence, a suffocating atmosphere filled the court-room.

Thurston alone was calm, his soul had collected all its force to meet the shock of whatever fate might come—­honor or dishonor, life or death!

Presently the foreman of the jury arose, followed by the others.

Every heart stood still.

“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?” demanded the judge.

“Yes, your honor,” responded the foreman, on the part of his colleagues.

“How say you—­is the prisoner at the bar ‘Guilty or not guilty?’”

“Not guilty!” cried the shrill tones of a girl near the outer door, toward which all eyes, in astonishment and inquiry, were now turned, to see a slight female figure, in the garb of a Sister of Mercy, clinging to the arm of Cloudesley Mornington, and who was now pushing and elbowing his way through the crowd toward the bench.

All gave way—­many that were seated arose to their feet, and spoke in eager whispers, or looked over each others’ heads.

“Order! silence in the court!” shouted the marshal.

“Your honor—­this lady is a vitally important witness for the defense,” said Cloudy, pushing his way into the presence of the judge, leaving his female companion standing before the bench and then hurrying to the dock, where he grasped the hand of the prisoner, exclaiming, breathlessly:  “Saved—­Thurston!  Saved!”

“Order! silence!” called out the marshal, by way of making himself agreeable—­for there was silence in the court, where all the audience at least were more anxious to hear than to speak.