“The Earl of Clydesfold!” continued the counsel. “Witnesses will be called who will tell you the story of his unfortunate, his ill-fated marriage; will show you how a man, gifted by nature, favored by fortune, of ancient and noble birth, possessed of enormous wealth, was induced by a mad passion to forget all that was due to his rank, to the honor of an ancient name, and to marry a young gypsy girl whom, blinded by that passion, he believed to be all that was innocent and pure; but who, before the honeymoon had passed, proved herself utterly unworthy to bear the name of any honest man!” He paused and arranged his papers. “Consider his position. Consider the nature of the prisoner. He had, all unwittingly, married this woman; was it possible for him, having discovered her true character, to drag the story of his shame, to drag the honor of his name through the mud of a divorce case? As many a man in his position had done before, he elected to hide his misery and his dishonor from the eyes of the world, in which he had held so lofty a place. He put aside the name rendered famous by a long line of distinguished ancestors, and, leaving the woman who had ruined his life, he came and hid himself in this retired spot. For a time he succeeded in concealing himself. The woman--his wife--was free to live in riotous splendor upon his money, and he may have laid the flattering unction to his soul that she would be content to leave him in peace. But, gentlemen, the consequences of such a folly as the prisoner committed are not to be avoided or escaped. The woman to whom he had given his name, in an evil and ill-fated moment, resolved that she would compel him to own her before the world or lay bare the story of his shame. She succeeded in tracking him to the place of his concealment. She had an interview with him on the night before her death. The incidents--some of the words that passed at that interview--I shall place before you. An appointment was made for the morrow. On that morrow she was found lying dead at his feet, the weapon by which she was slain beside her, bearing his name. Such evidence, so conclusive, so convincing, so damning, cannot, I fear, but lead you to the painful decision that the deceased came by her death at the hands of the prisoner.” The spectators drew a long breath, as he concluded, and all eyes turned to the prisoner. He had scarcely moved; but the weary expression on his face had deepened, and he looked as if the crowded court had slipped from his consciousness, and he was going back, mentally, to the terrible folly of his life. A thrill of pity stirred the hearts of the crowd, and one or two women put their handkerchiefs to their eyes and sobbed audibly. The excitement was intense. Mr. Sewell conferred for a moment with the solicitor for the prosecution, and the counsel called: “Viscount Bortoun.”