he displayed during the trial.  On himself there was no change visible, unless the appearance of two round spots, one on each cheek, of a somewhat deeper red than the rest.  At length, in the midst of the dead silence, pronounced in a voice that reached to the remotest extremity of the court, was heard the fatal sentence—­“Guilty;” and afterwards, in a less distinct manner—­“with our strongest and most earnest recommendation for mercy, in consequence of his youth and previous good character.”  The wail and loud sobbings of the female part of the crowd, and the stronger but more silent grief of the men, could not, for many minutes, be repressed by any efforts of the court or its officers.  In the midst of this, a little to the left of the dock, was an old man, whom those around him were conveying in a state of insensibility out of the court; and it was obvious that, from motives of humane consideration for the prisoner, they endeavored to prevent him from ascertaining that it was his father.  In this, however, they failed; the son’s eye caught a glimpse of his grey locks, and it was observed that his cheek paled for the first time, indicating, by a momentary change, that the only evidence of agitation he betrayed was occasioned by sympathy in the old man’s sorrows, rather than by the contemplation of his own fate.

The tragic spirit of the day, however, was still to deepen, and a more stunning blow, though less acute in its agony, was to fall upon the prisoner.  The stir of the calm and solemn jurors, as they issued out of their room; the hushed breaths of the spectators, the deadly silence that prevails, and the appalling announcement of the word “Guilty,” are circumstances that test in man fortitude, more even than the passing of the fearful sentence itself.  In the latter case, hope is banished, and the worst that can happen known; the mind is, therefore, thrown back upon its last energies, which give it strength in the same way in which the death-struggle frequently arouses the muscular action of the I body—­an unconscious power or resistance that forces the culprit’s heart to take refuge in the first and strongest instincts of its nature, the undying principle of self-preservation.  No sooner was the verdict returned and silence obtained, than the judge, now deeply affected, put on the black cap, at which a low wild murmur of stifled grief and pity rang through the court-house; but no sooner was his eye bent on the prisoner than their anxiety to hear the sentence hushed them once more into the stillness of the grave.  The prisoner looked upon him with an open but melancholy gaze, which, from the candid and manly character of his countenance, was touching in the extreme.

“Connor O’Donovan,” said the judge, “have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon you?”

“My lord,” he replied, “I can say nothing to prevent it.  I am prepared for it.  I know I must bear it, and I hope I will bear it as a man ought, that feels his heart free from even a thought of the crime he is to die for.  I have nothing more to say.”