“We are, sir—entirely so, I believe. If the court please, Mr. Williams and Mr. Wright will be associated with me in this case. It is one of importance, and I do not like the responsibility of trying it alone.” “The court has so understood it—who is for the accused?” “I am retained to defend Mary Monson,” answered Dunscomb, rising with dignity, and speaking with the self-possession of one long accustomed to the courts. “Mr. Timms will assist me.” “Are you ready, gentlemen?” “I believe we are, your honour; though the prisoner has not yet been arraigned.” “Mr. District Attorney, we will proceed.” As the sheriff now left the room, in person, rather an unusual thing in bringing a prisoner into court, expectation was at its height. In the midst of a breathing silence, the door swung round—court-room doors are now made to swing like turnpikes, in order to prevent noise—and Mr. Gott entered, followed by Mary Monson, Anna, Sarah, Marie Moulin, and the two young men. The kind-hearted wife of the sheriff was already in the room, and, by means of a constable, had managed to keep seats reserved for those who might attend the prisoner. To these seats the party now retired, with the exception of Marie Moulin, who attended her mistress within the bar. Every observer was struck with the unexpected air, manner, and attire of the prisoner. Dunscomb saw, at a glance, that her appearance had made a most favourable impression. This was something, and he hoped it might counteract much of the manœuvring of Davis and Williams. The judge, in particular, a kind-hearted and very well meaning man, was taken altogether by surprise. There is nothing in which there is more freemasonry than in the secret symptoms of social castes. Each individual is more or less of a judge of these matters, up to the level of his own associations, while all beyond is mystery. It happened that the judge, now about to try Mary Monson, belonged to an old, historical, New York family, a thing of rather rare occurrence in the great movements of the times, and he possessed an hereditary tact in discerning persons of his own habits of life. Almost at a glance, he perceived that the prisoner had the air, manners, countenance and finesse, of one accustomed, from infancy, to good company. The reader may smile at this, but he must pardon us if we say the smile will betray ignorance, rather than denote the philosophy that he may fancy controls his opinions. Dunscomb was much gratified when the judge rather earnestly interposed against the act of the sheriff, who was about to place the prisoner at the bar in the little barricaded space allotted to the use of ordinary criminals, directing him to— “Give the prisoner a chair _within_ the bar, Mr. Sheriff. Gentlemen, be so good as to make room, that the accused may sit near her counsel. Mr. Attorney, let the prisoner be arraigned, as soon as she has rested from the fatigue and agitation of appearing here.”