“You may retire, Mr. Pembroke,” said Judge Randolph, with a smile, “your modesty is equal to your abilities.” At this Pembroke felt himself seized by the legs. The crowd carried him out into the night air where another crowd yelled and shouted, he struggling and breathless, and presenting a more undignified appearance than he had ever imagined himself capable of looking. The next thing he found himself on the court-house steps. While in the din and confusion, he recognized occasionally faces by the light of the swinging lantern in the porch of the building. In a moment the attorney-general of the State appeared by his side--a handsome florid man of sixty. He waved imperiously for silence, and the crowd obeyed. “My friends,” he said, in a strong, musical voice, “our young friend here has made a magnificent fight.” (Yells and cheers.) “He has done more than make an eloquent speech. He has mastered the law in the case.” (More yells and shouts.) “It was the intention of my colleagues and myself to move for a new trial. We have abandoned that intention.” (Yells and shouts wilder and wilder.) “We might possibly get a new trial on technicalities. It would cost the county much, and it would not subserve the cause of justice--for I cheerfully acknowledge to you here, that our young friend has proved conclusively that whoever caused the death of the dead man, the prisoner did not. Now will you not unite with me in giving him three cheers and a tiger!” The uproar was terrific. Pembroke could say nothing, could do nothing, but bow. Suddenly an inspiration came to him. He turned to the attorney-general who stood behind him and shook hands with him warmly. The other lawyers crowded around him and shook hands. Somebody made way through the crowd for Bob Henry. The negro on seeing Pembroke broke into loud sobbing, and seizing him in both arms called down blessings on him. Then Colonel Berkeley shouldered his way up to him with Miles. At every minute the enthusiasm of the crowd increased. Pembroke was growing deadly pale. The excitement, the sleeplessness, of the last week was telling on him at last. Colonel Berkeley, after a sharp glance at him, took him by the arm, and by dint of hauling and pulling succeeded in wedging his way with Pembroke through the crowd, which in the hullaballoo and semi-darkness, did not know that the hero of the hour was gone, and yelled fiercely, “Speech! Speech!” The attorney-general gratified them. Colonel Berkeley hustled Pembroke down, back through the court-room, out of a side door, and through byways to where the Isleham carriage stood, and clapped him in it, jumping in after him. “Cave will look after Miles,” he said, and shouted to Petrarch, who was on the box, “Home.” The coachman laid the whip on his horses and they made the five miles to Isleham in half an hour.