The jury had retired for consultation prior to bringing in a verdict of “Guilty,” which was expected of them. Retiring at all seemed little more than a farce, for from the beginning to the end of the case the evidence had gone so steadily against the defendant that by the time the last witness had been called there was no manner of doubt in the public mind that Robert Sullivan had deliberately and in cold blood murdered Jack Wilder, and it needed not the vigorous speech of the prosecuting attorney to convince any one to that effect. The evidence, being briefly summed up, ran as follows: Robert, or, as he was more familiarly called, Bob Sullivan, while in a state of intoxication, quarreled with and lost his last cent to Jack Wilder, a professional sharper. Awaking the morning after his debauch, to find himself beggared, he had sworn, in the presence of several witnesses, to get his money back or kill the man who had outwitted him. Accordingly, he had set out to meet Wilder on his return from a neighboring town, and next day the body of the latter was found in a lonely stretch of the road, with a knife sticking in his heart. Sullivan had been obliged to admit that he had met his enemy near this spot, and that they had a stormy interview, but maintained that they parted without blows, as Wilder promised him to restore his money. There was no tittle of circumstantial evidence wanting to confirm the appearance of Sullivan’s guilt, and even the attorney for the defense was privately convinced of the falsity and absurdity of his client’s plea of “Not guilty.” The judge, a large, pompous man, having instructed the jury in his most severe and autocratic manner, busied himself with some papers, and did not deign a glance to the assemblage below. It was, as could readily be observed, a gathering of small tradespeople and farmers. Here and there the keen face of a lawyer or that of a stranger from the neighboring city stood out boldly from the sea of honest vacuity which surrounded it. The prisoner sat with his face buried in his hands, which had lost their former tan, and were pale and trembling. Near him was his wife, hugging a sickly babe to her breast, and showing in her wild eyes, twitching mouth, and every line of her meager, stooping figure, the terror which held her in its grasp. A breathless silence was upon that audience in the shabby courtroom; even the baby had ceased its fretful wailing, and the buzz of a bluebottle fly entangled in a spider’s web in the window was the only sound that broke the stillness. Five minutes passed, ten, twenty, and still the jury had not come. A murmur of impatience began to be heard, and presently the judge beckoned the sheriff to him, whispered a few words in his ear, and saw him depart through the same door which apparently swallowed up the jurors. The sheriff made his way through several gloomy passages into a large, light room, where he inquired of the foreman if they were not yet agreed.