touched that of the stern old Kentuckian, he hissed forth:  “Dare you, sir, ask a verdict of such a jury as is here sitting upon this testimony?—­you, sir, who under the verdict of nature must soon appear before the awful bar to which you now strive prematurely to consign this noble, this gallant young man!  Should you succeed, you must meet him there.  Could you, in the presence of Almighty God—­He who knows the inmost thoughts—­justify your work of to-day?  His mandate is not to the gibbet.  Eternal Justice dictates there, whose decrees are eternal.  Do you think of this?  Do you defy it?  If not—­if you invoke it, do it through your acts toward your fellow-man.  Have you to-day done unto this man as you would he should do unto you?  I pause for a reply—­none.  Then shudder and repent, for the record even now is making up against you in that high court from which there is no appeal.  You, gentlemen of the jury, are no hired advocates:  you are not laboring for blood-money.  Though your responsibility to your God is equal to his, you will not go to the bar of your Creator with blood—­guiltless blood—­upon your consciences.  You will not, as he will, in that awful presence, on that eventful day, look around you for the accusing spirit of him whom you consigned to the gibbet with a consciousness of his innocence of murder.  How will it be with you? (turning again to Hardin.) Ah! how will it be with you?  Still silent.  Despite the hardness of his features, mercy like a halo sweeps over them, and speaks to you, gentlemen, eloquently:  ‘Acquit the accused!’ Look over yonder, gentlemen:  within these walls is one awaiting your verdict in tearless agony—­she who but for this untoward event would now have been happy as his bride:  she who has cheered him in his prison-cell daily with her presence and lovely soul!  Hers, not his fate, is in your hands.  To him death is nothing:  the brave defy death—­the good fear it not; then why should he fear?  But she!  O God! it is a fearful thing to crush to death with agony the young, hopeful, and loving heart of virtuous woman.  His death is only terrible in her future.  Go with her, gentlemen, through life; contemplate the wan features of slow decay:  see in these the one eternal, harrowing thought; list to the sigh which rives the heart; watch the tear which falls in secret; see her sink into the grave; then turn away, look up into heaven, and from your heart say:  ‘O God!  I did it.’  You will not; you cannot; you dare not.”

Hardin’s conclusion was tame, and without effect; the demonstrations on the part of the jury dispirited him, and his concluding speech had none of the power of his opening.  The jury returned a verdict of not guilty, without hesitation.  Wilkinson was immediately discharged, and in company with his friends was repairing to the hotel, when, in the warmth of his emotion, he said, laying his hand on the shoulder of Prentiss:  “How shall I pay you, my friend, for this great service you have done me?”