“Why, ’Squire, I’m amazed a man of your experience should ask the question! The law is sharp enough in keeping jurors, and constables, and door-keepers in their places; but the jurors, and constables, and door-keepers, don’t like to be kept in their places; and there isn’t one cause in ten, if they be of any length, in which the jurors don’t stray, or the constables don’t get into the jury-rooms. You can’t pound free-born Americans like cattle!” “I understand you, Johnson, and will take the hint. I knew there was a screw loose in this part of our jurisprudence, but did not think it as important as I now see it is. The fact is, Johnson, we have been telling the people so long that they are perfect, and every man that he, in his own person, is one of these people, that our citizens don’t like to submit to restraints that are disagreeable. Still, we are a law-abiding people, as every one says.” “That may be so, ’Squire; but we are not jury-room-abiding, nor be the constables outside-of-the-door-abiding, take my word for it. As you say, sir, every man is beginning to think he is a part of the people, and a great part, too; and he soon gets the notion that he can do as he has a mind to do.” “Where is Mr. Dunscomb?” “He stepp’d out with the young gentlemen, a few moments since. I dare say, ’Squire Timms, he’s gone to engage men to talk down this rumour about Mary Monson. That job should have been mine, by rights!” “Not he, Johnson—not he. Your grand lawyers don’t meddle with such matters; or, when they do, they pretend not to. No, he has gone to the gaol, and I must follow him.” At the gaol was Dunscomb, sure enough. Mary Monson, Anna and Sarah, with Marie Moulin, all dressed for the court; the former with beautiful simplicity, but still more beautiful care; the three last plainly, but in attire well suited to their respective stations in life. There was a common air of concern and anxiety; though Mary Monson still maintained her self-command. Indeed, the quiet of her manner was truly wonderful, for the circumstances. “Providence has placed me in a most trying situation,” she said; “but I see my course. Were I to shrink from this trial, evade it in any manner, a blot would rest on my name as long as I am remembered. It is indispensable that I should be _acquitted_. This, by God’s blessing on the innocent, must come to pass, and I may go forth and face my friends with a quiet mind.” “These friends ought to be known,” answered Dunscomb, “and should be here to countenance you with their presence.” “They!—He!—Never—while I live, never!” “You see this young man, Mary Monson—I believe he is known to you, by name?” Mary Monson turned her face towards Millington, smiled coldly, and seemed undisturbed. “What is he to me?—Here is the woman of his heart;—let him turn to _her_, with all his care.” “You understand me, Mary Monson—it is important that I should be assured of _that_.”