When called upon to plead to the indictment, he uttered the words “not guilty” in a full, firm and mellow voice, that drew the eyes of the spectators once more upon him, and occasioned another slight hum of sympathy and admiration.  No change of color was observable on his countenance, or any other expression, save the lofty composure to which we have just alluded.

The trial at length proceeded; and, after a long and able statement from the Attorney-General, Bartle Flanagan was called up on the table.  The prisoner, whose motions were keenly observed, betrayed, on seeing him, neither embarrassment nor agitation; all that could be perceived was a more earnest and intense light in his eyes, as they settled upon his accuser.  Flanagan detailed, with singular minuteness and accuracy, the whole progress of the crime from its first conception to its perpetration.  Indeed, had he himself been in the dock, and his evidence against Connor a confession of his own guilt, it would, with some exceptions, have been literally true.  He was ably cross-examined, but no tact, or experience, or talent, on the part of the prisoner’s counsel, could, in any important degree, shake his testimony.  The ingenuity with which he laid and conducted the plot was astonishing, as was his foresight, and the precaution he adopted against detection.  Cassidy, Connor’s attorney, had ferreted out the very man from whom he purchased the tinder-box, with a hope of proving that it was not the prisoner’s property but his own; yet this person, who remembered the transaction very well, assured him that Flanagan said he procured it by the desire of Fardorougha Donovan’s son.

During his whole evidence, he never once raised his eye to look upon the prisoner’s face, until he was desired to identify him.  He then turned round, and, standing with the rod in his hand, looked for some moments upon his victim.  His dark brows got black as night, whilst his cheeks were blanched to the hue of ashes—­the white smile as before sat upon his lips, and his eyes, in which there blazed the unsteady fire of a treacherous and cowardly heart, sparkled with the red turbid glare of triumph and vengeance.  He laid the rod upon Connor’s head, and they gazed at each other face to face, exhibiting as striking a contrast as could be witnessed.  The latter stood erect and unshaken—­his eye calmly bent upon that of his foe, but with a spirit in it that seemed to him alone by whom it was best understood, to strike dismay into the very soul of falsehood within him.  The villain’s eyes could not withstand the glance of Connor’s—­they fell, and his whole countenance assumed such a blank and guilty stamp, that an old experienced barrister, who watched them both, could not avoid saying, that if he had his will they should exchange situations.

“I would not hang a dog,” he whispered, “on that fellow’s evidence—­he has guilt in his face.”