Seymore had covered his face when he first entered, and had not looked at Edith. So hushed was the crowd, that the word "_guilty_," wrung as it were from him in the lowest whisper, was heard distinctly through the whole meeting-house. It pierced Edith's ear like the voice of a trumpet; and from that moment the spirit of a martyr entered her breast. She felt herself deserted by the whole of her little world, falsely convicted of a crime she abhorred, and left without human sympathy. She turned to God. "He who seeth in secret," she said, "knows my innocence;" and she bowed her head, and made no further answer. The trial was closed as it began,--with religious services. A hymn was sung; and Edith, feeling, as I have said, an elevation that she could not herself understand, joined in the devotion. The others stopped; for they would not mingle their voices with one convicted of witchcraft: the very evil one was mocking them. Edith continued alone; and her rich, sweet tones thrilled their hearts like the voice of an angel. She was reminded by a whisper from Dinah that she was singing alone; and, ceasing, she blushed deeply, and covered her face from the curious gaze of the multitude. As Edith returned to her prison, guarded on each side, and followed by Dinah, she thought of the Lady Ursula, whose cruel fate had moved her so deeply. And was she indeed the same person? The child that had wept her fate so bitterly was now to meet one far more terrible: and she felt strength to meet it. Every wave, as it had passed over her, had brought out the hidden beauty and strength of her soul; and, though there was in her no air of triumph, a tranquil contentment and repose was expressed in her whole person. CHAPTER XVIII. "No, never more, O, never in the worth Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth Trust fondly,--never more! The hope is crushed That lit my life,--the voice within me hushed That spoke sweet oracles." The unnatural excitement that had borne our heroine up during the last part of her trial forsook her when she entered once more her dreary prison. She was again alone,--again a weak and timid woman. The momentary exaltation that a sense of injustice had given her when under the gaze of numbers, gave way to memories of the deep and unforgotten happiness she had connected with Seymore. All her sweet anticipations of soothing his spirit, of leading him to more rational views of God and of himself, faded away. In a few days, she would be no more, and remembered, perhaps, with pity or scorn. One last, lingering weakness remained: it was the fear of losing the respect and tenderness of Seymore.