Harold. A slight movement in the crowd near the door--a kind of waving motion like the quiet surging of the sea--seemed to-indicate some commotion within the court; and although Linton saw this, and judged it rightly, as the evidence of something eventful about to happen, he sat still to await the result with the dogged firmness with which he would have awaited death itself. As we are less interested spectators of the scene, let us press our way through the tired and exhausted crowd that fill the body of the building. And now we stand beneath the gallery, and immediately behind a group of about half a dozen, whose dress and demeanor at once proclaim them of the world of fashion. These are Lord Charles Frobisher and his friends, who, with memorandum-books and timepieces before them, sit in eager anxiety, for they have wagers on everything: on the verdict--how the judge will charge--if the prisoner will confess--if he will attempt a defence; and even the length of time the jury will sit in deliberation, is the subject of a bet! This anxiety was now at its climax, for, directly in front of them, a small door had just opened, and a crowd of men entered, and took their seats in the gallery. Their grave countenances, marked by watching and eager discussion, at once proclaimed that they were the jury. There was a low murmur heard throughout the court as they took their seats; and instinctively many an eye was turned towards the dock, to watch how _he_ bore himself in that trying moment With a steady gaze fixed upon the spot from which his doom was to be spoken, he stood erect, with arms folded and his head high. He was deathly pale; but not a trace of anything like fear in the calm lineaments of his manly features. “The jury seem very grave,” whispered Upton to Frobisher. “I wish that stupid old judge would bestir himself,” replied Lord Charles, looking at his watch; “it wants four minutes to five: he 'll scarcely be in court before it strikes, and I shall lose a pony through it.” “Here he comes!--here he comes!” said another; and the Chief Baron entered the court, his face betraying that he had been aroused from sleep. “Are you agreed, gentlemen of the jury?” asked the judge, in a low voice. “Not perfectly, my Lord,” said the foreman. “We want your Lordship to decide a point for us; which is--If we should be of opinion that any grave provocation led to the death of Kennyfeck, whether our verdict could be modified, and our finding be, in consequence, for manslaughter, and not murder?” “The indictment,” said the judge, “does not give you that option. It is framed without any count for the minor offence. I ought, perhaps, also to observe, that nothing has transpired in the evidence given here, this day, to warrant the impression you seem inclined to entertain. Your verdict must be one of Guilty or Not Guilty.”