There was a cry of “Silence!” The jury were stumbling back into the box; the judges returned to the bench. Amid a breathless stillness the Clerk of Arraigns put the accustomed questions: “Do you find the prisoner, Patrick Desmond, guilty or not guilty?”--“Not guilty.” “Do you find the prisoner, John O’Leary, guilty or not guilty?”--“Not guilty.” “Do you find the prisoner, Robert Dale, guilty or not guilty?”--“Not guilty.” Then, last of all, “Do you find the prisoner, Michael White, guilty or not guilty?” The pale face of the foreman twitched; there was a momentary hesitation in his manner. Every ear was strained to catch the verdict. Then, in a low voice, it came,--“Guilty.” There was a swift scratching of pens. The Clerk of Arraigns was recording the verdict on the parchment of the long indictment, the judge was noting it, the counsel were indorsing the result upon their briefs, but the eyes of all others were on the face of the prisoner at the bar. “Michael White,” said the Clerk of Arraigns, “you stand convicted upon this indictment. Have you any cause to show why the Court should not pass judgment upon you?” “I have to say,” answered the prisoner, in a clear, strong voice, “that I had no hand in this so-called plot. My conviction has been brought about by perjured evidence and trickery; but, my lord, do not suppose that I shall whine for mercy. I am not the first man to suffer for a cause. I love my native land, and I hate those who oppress it. If my life could be the price of justice to Ireland and the Irish I would gladly lay it down; if the hand that I now raise to heaven could bring vengeance on those who have wronged us I should rejoice; and though death or prison-house make me powerless, with my last breath I would whisper to my son to carry on the work.” For a moment the prisoner’s face was turned towards his son’s, and there were those in Court who saw and afterwards recalled the answering look. Then Michael White received, unmoved, his sentence. Penal servitude for life. PART II RIVALS IN LOVE “Stand aside,” said Westwood, in a voice which he vainly strove to steady. “Not yet,” was the savage answer; “you’ve got to listen!” The two men faced each other in the calm starlight of the April evening. The Embankment was almost deserted save for the huddled, heedless outcasts on the benches. A few hansoms rattled westward; a few small vessels, with sails spread, moved ghostly and silent on the swirling river. Nature’s placidity was in strange contrast with the fiery passion that flamed in the eyes of Marcus White and found expression in his threatening gestures. Both men were pale; their facial muscles tense. But the pallor of the one was begotten of anger and hatred. With Westwood it was the outcome of nervous apprehension, if not of actual fear.