They retired at the end to consider their verdict. While they were
absent every eye in court was fixed on the prisoner. But Paul
Finglemore himself looked steadily towards the further end of the
hall, where two pale-faced women sat together, with handkerchiefs
in their hands, and eyes red with weeping.
Only then, as he stood there, awaiting the verdict, with a fixed
white face, prepared for everything, did I begin to realise with
what courage and pluck that one lone man had sustained so long an
unequal contest against wealth, authority, and all the Governments
of Europe, aided but by his own skill and two feeble women! Only
then did I feel he had played his reckless game through all those
years with _this_ ever before him! I found it hard to picture.
The jury filed slowly back. There was dead silence in court as the
clerk put the question, "Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty
or not guilty?"
"We find him guilty."
"On all the counts?"
"On all the counts of the indictment."
The women at the back burst into tears, unanimously.
Mr. Justice Rhadamanth addressed the prisoner. "Have you anything
to urge," he asked in a very stern tone, "in mitigation of whatever
sentence the Court may see fit to pass upon you?"
"Nothing," the prisoner answered, just faltering slightly.
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