“Thank you,” said Mr. Bassett, but did not seat himself. He stood before the prisoner and gave his evidence; during which the prisoner's knees were seen to knock together with terror: he was a young man fit for folly, but not for felony. Said Richard Bassett, “I have a cupboard containing family plate. It is valuable, and some years ago I passed a piece of catgut from the door through the ceiling to a bell at my bedside. “Very late last night the bell sounded. I flung on my trousers, and went down with a pistol. I caught two burglars in the act of rifling the cupboard. I went to collar one; he struck me on the head with a crowbar--constable, show the crowbar--I staggered, but recovered myself, and fired at one of the burglars: he was just struggling through the window. He fell, and I thought he was dead, but he got away. I secured the other, and here he is--just as he was when I took him. Constable, search his pockets.” The constable did so, and produced therefrom several pieces of silver plate stamped with the Bassett arms. “My servant here can confirm this,” added Mr. Bassett. “It is not necessary here,” said Sir Charles. Then to the criminal, “Have you anything to say?” “It was only a lark,” quavered the poor wretch. “I would not advise you to say that where you are going.” He then, while writing out the warrant, said, as a matter of course, “Remove his mask.” The constable lifted it, and started back with a shout of dismay and surprise: Jessie screamed. Sir Charles looked up, and saw in the burglar he was committing for trial his first-born, the heir to his house and his lands. The pen fell from Sir Charles's fingers, and he stared at the wan face, and wild, imploring eyes that stared at him. He stared at the lad, and then put his hand to his heart, and that heart seemed to die within him. There was a silence, and a horror fell on all. Even Richard Bassett quailed at what he had done. “Ah! cruel man! cruel man!” moaned the broken father. “God judge you for this--as now I must judge my unhappy son. Mr. Bassett, it matters little to you what magistrate commits you, and I must keep my oath. I am--going--to set you an--example, by signing a warrant--” “No, no, no!” cried a woman's voice, and Mary Meyrick rushed into the room. Every person there thought he knew Mary Meyrick; yet she was like a stranger to them now. There was that in her heart at that awful moment which transfigured a handsome but vulgar woman into a superior being. Her cheek was pale, her black eyes large, and her mellow voice had a magic power. “You don't know what you are doing!” she cried. “Go no farther, or you will all curse the hand that harmed a hair of his head; you, most of all, Richard Bassett.” Sir Charles, in any other case, would have sent her out of the room; but, in his misery, he caught at the straw. “Speak out, woman,” he said, “and save the wretched boy, if you can. I see no way.”