“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?” “We have, my lord,” answered the foreman. “What say you, then, is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?” “NOT GUILTY, my lord.” “Lady Montressor is discharged from custody,” said the Judge. A low deep murmur of satisfaction ran through the crowd. The old minister seized the hand of his protege, and burst into tears of joy. Lord Montressor grasped that of Lord Dazzleright in warm acknowledgment of his services, and congratulation of his success, and then instantly turned to his bride. His attention was too late—she had fainted on the arm of the old clergyman—she who had firmly borne up under the horrors of the past month, had now succumbed and sunk, and lay like a statue fallen from its pedestal. “Lady Montressor is discharged from custody,” repeated the clerk of the court, somewhat impatiently. She looked indeed as though she were discharged not only from the court, but from the earth—so still, so white, so lifeless! “Raise her in your arms, Montressor: take her into the sheriff’s room. I will show you the way,” said Lord Dazzleright, bending anxiously over her fainting form. At this moment, also, Susan Copsewood, her maid, who had been somewhere among the spectators, succeeded in pushing her way through the crowd, and reaching the side of her mistress. Lord Montressor raised Estelle with care, and, preceded by Lord Dazzleright, bore her from the court-room into the sheriff’s office, where he laid her on the sofa, dropped upon one knee by her side, and began to rub and chafe her hands, and invoke her by every fond epithet and hopeful word to awake—arise! Such restoratives as could be first procured were brought and applied, and with such good effect that, after a little while, a shudder passed through her frame, her breast heaved, her face quivered—she sighed, and opened her eyes. Her glance met the anxious, earnest gaze of Lord Montressor bent upon her. She sighed again, and dropped her eyelids. “Stella! my Stella! my bride! my wife! rouse yourself, dearest! You are acquitted, you are justified,” said Lord Montressor, anxiously seeking to restore her. “You are vindicated—you are free!” “Free! free! oh God!” she cried, so despairingly, so incoherently, with a countenance so blanched and convulsed with anguish, that her friends drew near and gazed upon her in as much astonishment as alarm. “Compose yourself, sweet Stella,” murmured Lord Montressor, sitting down beside her, and gently smoothing away the beautiful, dishevelled black ringlets from her cold and clammy forehead. “Sweet love, be calm.” “I will, I am,” she said, trying to control the motions of her quivering and ashen lips. Then gently putting aside his caressing hand, and rising upon her elbow, she inquired: