rebuttal of that before the court. This made it necessary for
Staunton to go on at once with his final address to the jury.

Seldom in all his experience had he appeared to such poor advantage
as on that day. The court was still breathing the atmosphere of
Mrs. Fitzpatrick's rude and impassioned appeal. The lawyer was
still feeling the sting of his humiliating failure with his star
witness, and O'Hara's unexpected move surprised and flustered him,
old hand as he was. With halting words and without his usual
assurance, he reviewed the evidence and asked for a conviction on
both charges.

With O'Hara it was quite otherwise. It was in just such a desperate
situation that he was at his best. The plight of the prisoner,
lonely, beaten and defenceless, appealed to his chivalry. Then,
too, O'Hara, by blood and tradition, was a revolutionist. In every
"rising" during the last two hundred years of Ireland's struggles,
some of his ancestors had carried a pike or trailed a musket, and
the rebel blood in him cried sympathy with the Nihilist in his
devotion to a hopeless cause. And hence the passion and the almost
tearful vehemence that he threw into his final address were
something more than professional.

With great skill he took his cue from the evidence of the last
witness. He drew a picture of the Russian Nihilist hunted like
"a partridge on the mountains," seeking for himself and his
compatriots a home and safety in this land of liberty. With
vehement scorn he told the story of the base treachery of
Rosenblatt, "a Government spy, a thief, a debaucher of women,
and were I permitted, gentlemen, I could unfold a tale in this