Again silence, seemingly for minutes, in reality but for seconds, and then the dark shadow crept again forward, picked up the miner's lamp, and stole silently to the old man's side. Only for a moment it waited there, and then crept back until it paused at the opening of the shaft which led again downward to the sixth level. Very faintly a sound came up from the blackness below--the sound of a girl's voice singing. Amid the darkness no eye could see the expression on the shadow's face. For an instant it stood poised at the mouth of the shaft; then, quickly and yet with caution, began its descent. CHAPTER VIII THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION As the judge rose from his desk he sighed. His face was troubled, his whole manner vaguely dissatisfied. It was the last day of the trial, and from the evidence, from the district attorney's all but completed argument, from the whole manner in which the case had been tried, he felt certain that the jury could come but to one conclusion, and that their verdict would condemn to death the sodden, miserable wretch who now for three days had sat in the prisoner's box, listening, seemingly without comprehension, to what was being said, acting throughout as if he scarcely realized that in all this dramatic spectacle he was the central figure, to watch whose chance for life or death all these people had come day after day to crowd the little court room, sitting enthralled with a terrible fascination as the lawyers for prosecution and defense fought their fight of thrust and parry--with a man's life for the prize. "Guilty" would be the verdict, and doubtless a verdict well justified by the evidence, and yet--and the judge, half unconsciously, sighed again. The court officer, blue coated, gold buttoned, portly, imposing, threw open the door leading into the court room. "Court!" he cried in resounding tones, and the crowd, rising as the judge entered, with a little flutter of expectancy sank back again into their places as he took his seat on the bench, gazing down through his gold-bowed spectacles at the familiar scene. The prisoner sat in his accustomed place, a trifle more weary looking, a trifle more pathetically forlorn, than ever. At the tables in the enclosure sat Wilson Carter, the district attorney, a man keen and sharp as a brier, yet fair withal, and universally liked and respected; to his left, pale and nervous with the strain of waging a gallant but losing fight, sat young Harry Amory, assigned by the court as counsel for the accused; and just behind Carter, next to the prisoner, as the parties most in interest, sat Gordon, Harrison, and Ethel Mason, the girl clothed in somber black, Gordon with a band of crape on his left arm. The judge cleared his throat. "Counsel for the prosecution?" he said inquiringly, and Carter started to his feet. "Ready, your Honor," he replied, and the judge nodded. "You may proceed," he said.