She was a strong, calm, self-governing woman—­not wont to be overcome by any event or any emotion—­yet now her head, her whole form, drooped forward, and she sank upon the low balustrade in front of her seat—­weighed down by excess of happiness—­happiness so absorbing that for a time she forgot everything else; but soon she remembered that her presence was required near the bench, to put a stop to the debate between the lawyers, and she strove to quell the tumultuous excitement of her feelings, and to recover self-command before going among them.

In the meantime, near the bench, the counsel for the prisoner had succeeded in establishing the validity of the challenged testimony, and the case was once more about to be recommitted to the jury, when the lady, who had been quietly making her way through the crowd toward the bench, stood immediately in front of the judge, raised her veil, and Marian Mayfield stood revealed.

With a loud cry the prisoner sprang upon his feet; but was immediately captured by two officers, who fancied he was about to escape.

Marian did not speak one word, she could not do so, nor was it necessary—­there she stood alive among them—­they all knew her—­the judge, the officers, the lawyers, the audience—­there she stood alive among them—­it was enough!

The audience arose in a mass, and “Marian!” “Marian Mayfield!” was the general exclamation, as all pressed toward the newcomer.

Jacquelina, stunned with the too sudden joy, swooned in the arms of Cloudy, who, between surprise and delight, had nearly lost his own senses.

The people pressed around Marian, with exclamations and inquiries.

The marshal forgot to be disorderly with vociferations of “Order!” and stood among the rest, agape for news.

Marian recovered her voice and spoke: 

“I am not here to give any information; what explanation I have to make is due first of all to Mr. Willcoxen, who has the right to claim it of me when he pleases,” and turning around she moved toward the dock, raising her eyes to Thurston’s face, and offering her hand.

How he met that look—­how he clasped that hand—­need not be said—­their hearts were too full for speech.

The tumult in the court-room was at length subdued by the rising of the judge to make a speech—­a very brief one: 

“Mr. Willcoxen is discharged, and the court adjourned,” and then the judge came down from his seat, and the officers cried, “make way for the court to pass.”  And the way was made.  The judge came up to the group, and shook hands first with Mr. Willcoxen, whom he earnestly congratulated, and then with Marian, who was an old and esteemed acquaintance, and so bowing gravely, he passed out.

Still the crowd pressed on, and among them came Commodore Waugh and his family, for whom way was immediately made.

Mrs. Waugh wept and smiled, and exclaimed:  “Oh!  Hebe!  Oh!  Lapwing!”