heart within me is growin' wake."

After a few cheering expressions from the bench, who evidently were
much moved by her simply energetic language and action, she was asked
whether she could tell the Court where her husband spent that and the
following nights; and with all the eagerness that an instantaneously
formed idea of serving him could give, she answered--

"Oh, yis! yis! my Lord, I can. He was in the mountains shootin' wid Phil
Doran's gun, an' he was sazed by some men, that made him stop wid thim,
an' take an oath not to revale who they wor, an' they thrated him badly;
so afther three days he made his escape, and come home to the cabin,
whin he was taken by the poliss."

"One word more, an' you may go down--What was done with that gun?"

The judge's hard and unmoved tone of voice seemed to bring misgiving
to her mind, and she trembled from head to foot as she falteringly
answered--

"The wild boys of the mountain kep' it, my Lord, an' so he couldn't
bring id home wid him. But, indeed, my Lord, indeed he's innocent--I'll
swear he never done it! Fur, oh! iv you knew the tindherness ov his
heart--he that niver hurt a fly! Don't be hard on him for the love ov
mercy, an' I'll pray for you night an' day."

This was the last question she was asked, and having left the table,
and regained her former position by her father's side, she listened with
moveless, motionless intensity to the judge's "charge." He recapitulated
the evidence--dwelt on the strong circumstances that seemed to bespeak