Earle Wayne's nobility

The deep, sonorous voice of the foreman of the jury sounded out upon the solemn stillness of the crowded court-room like the knell of doom.

And doom it was, and to one who never consciously committed a mean act in all his life.

The effect which that one word produced was marked.

There was a rustle of excitement and disapproval among the crowd, while deep-drawn sighs and expressions of sorrow showed that sympathy was strong for the prisoner at the bar, who for the last hour, while the jury was absent to decide upon the verdict, had sat with bent head and listless attitude, as if wearied out with the bitter trial to which he had been subjected.

Now, however, as he had been commanded “to look upon the jury,” his head was proudly lifted, revealing an exceedingly intelligent and handsome face, and a pair of fine dark eyes met those of the foreman unflinchingly while the least smile of scorn and bitterness disturbed the firm, strong mouth, showing that he had believed he had not much to hope for from him.

As the word was spoken which sealed his fate, a gray pallor settled over his face, and he dropped into his former attitude; otherwise he betrayed no sign of emotion.

Then something occurred which very seldom occurs in a crowded court-room.

A low cry of pain not far from the prisoner made every eye turn that way, and made him shiver as with a sudden chill.

A tender, sorrowful gleam crept into his dark eyes, the proud lips unbent and trembled slightly, and a heavy sigh heaved his broad chest.

The next moment a slender, girlish form started up from her seat, and a fair, flushed face was turned with eloquent pleading toward the grave judge, sitting like a statue in his chair of state, while an earnest, quivering voice rang out:

“Oh, sir, he is not guilty—I know that Earle Wayne never was guilty of such a deed.”

A touching picture, and very sweet and attractive withal, Editha Dalton made, standing there so unconscious of herself, or that she was guilty of any breach of decorum; her fair hair floating like gleams of sunlight upon her graceful shoulders, her sweet face flushed and full of pain, her deep blue eyes filled with tears and raised beseechingly to the judge, her delicate hands clasped imploringly and half-outstretched toward him, as if seeking for mercy in the sentence he was about to pronounce.

The old man’s face lost its habitual sternness for a moment, and his own eyes softened almost to tenderness, as he caught the sweet tones, and turned to look upon her, so beautiful in her appealing attitude.

It was not often that a culprit found one so earnest and beautiful to plead his cause. The able lawyer who had had charge of the case for the young man, with all his eloquence, had not moved him as did this fair maiden, with her flushed, pained face, her pleading eyes, her outstretched hands.

A murmur of sympathy sounded again throughout the room, and a wave of regret swept over the judge’s heart as he turned from the girl to the prisoner, feeling himself more than half convinced of the truth of her words, as he marked again the noble face and the honest expression of the clear, unflinching eyes.

But some one pulled Editha Dalton hastily back into the chair from which she had arisen, and a stern voice uttered in her ear:

“Edie! Edie! sit down, child! What are you thinking of, when your own evidence did more toward convicting him than that of any one else?”