“As for his womanly face,” replied Mr. Barker, “there is no trusting to that. The worst villains are not always the worst-looking. As for his being intoxicated, there is no telling whether it is true or not. That cunning lawyer may have made up the story, for the sake of exciting compassion; and the witnesses may be more than willing enough to believe every thing strange in the prisoner’s conduct was the result of intoxication. Moreover, it won’t do to admit that plea in extenuation; for then, don’t you see, a man who wants to kill his enemy has only to get drunk in the first place? If anybody killed my Joe, drunk or not drunk, I should want him to swing for it.” By such remarks, urged in his vehement way, he swayed minds more timid and lenient than his own, without being fully aware of what he was doing. He was foreman of the jury; and when the awful moment arrived on which depended the life of a fellow being, he pronounced the word “Guilty,” in a strong, firm voice. The next instant his eye fell on the prisoner, standing there so pale, and still, looking at him with such fixed despair. There was something in the face that moved him strongly. He turned quickly away, but the vision was before him; always, and everywhere before him. “This is weakness,” he said to himself. “I have merely done my duty. The law required it. I have done my duty.” But still the pale young face looked at him; always, and everywhere, it looked at him. He feared to touch a newspaper, for he wished not to know when the day of execution would arrive. But officious neighbours, ignorant of his state of mind, were eager to talk upon the subject; and when drawn into such discourse, he strove to fortify his own feelings by dwelling on all the worst circumstances of the case. Notwithstanding all his efforts, the night preceding the execution, he had troubled dreams, in which that ghastly young face was always conspicuous. When he woke, he saw it in the air. It walked beside him as he ploughed the fields, it stood before him on the threshold of his own door. All that the merciful juryman had suggested came before him with painful distinctness. _Could_ there be a doubt that the condemned had really committed murder? _Was_ he intoxicated? _Might_ he have happened to be intoxicated for the _first_ time in his life? And he so young! But he drove these thoughts away; saying ever to himself, “The law required it. I merely did my duty.” Still every thing looked gloomy to him. The evening clouds seemed like funeral palls, and a pale despairing face gazed at him forever.