Prisoner. But I have not examined a witness yet.
Judge. You come somewhat out of time, madam; but, if you will be brief, we will hear you.
Prisoner. I thank you, my lord. It was only to withdraw an error. The cry for help that was heard by the side of Hernshaw Mere, I said, yesterday, that cry was uttered by Thomas Leicester. Well, I find I was mistaken: the cry for help was uttered by my husband,—by that Griffith Gaunt I am accused of assassinating.
This extraordinary admission caused a great sensation in court. The judge looked very grave and sad; and Sergeant Wiltshire, who came into court just then, whispered his junior, "She has put the rope round her own neck. The jury would never have believed our witness."
Prisoner. I will only add, that a person came into the town last night, who knows a great deal more about this mysterious business than I do. I purpose, therefore, to alter the plan of my defence; and to save your time, my lord, who have dealt so courteously with me, I shall call but a single witness.
Ere the astonishment caused by this sudden collapse of the defence was in any degree abated, she called "Mercy Vint."
There was the usual stir and struggle; and then the calm, self-possessed face and figure of a comely young woman confronted the court. She was sworn; and examined by the prisoner after this fashion.
"Where do you live?"
"At the 'Packhorse,' near Allerton, in Lancashire."
Prisoner. Do you know Mr. Griffith Gaunt?
Mercy. Madam, I do.
Prisoner. Was he at your place in October last?
Mercy. Yes, madam, on the thirteenth of October. On that day he left for Cumberland.
Prisoner. On foot, or on horseback?
Mercy. On horseback.
Prisoner. With boots on, or shoes?
Mercy. He had a pair of new boots on.
Prisoner. Do you know Thomas Leicester?
Mercy. A pedler called at our house on the eleventh of October, and he said his name was Thomas Leicester.
Prisoner. How was he shod?
Mercy. In hobnailed shoes.
Prisoner. Which way went he on leaving you?
Mercy. Madam, he went northwards; I know no more for certain.
Prisoner. When did you see Mr. Gaunt last?
Mercy. Four days ago.
Judge. What is that? You saw him alive four days ago?
Mercy. Ay, my lord; the last Wednesday that ever was.
At this the people burst out into a loud, agitated murmur, and their heads went to and fro all the time. In vain the crier cried and threatened. The noise rose and surged, and took its course. It went down gradually, as amazement gave way to curiosity; and then there was a remarkable silence; and then the silvery voice of the prisoner, and the mellow tones of the witness, appeared to penetrate the very walls of the building, each syllable of those two beautiful speakers was heard so distinctly.
Prisoner. Be so good as to tell the court what passed on Wednesday last between Griffith Gaunt and you, relative to this charge of murder.
Mercy. I let him know one George Neville had come from Cumberland in search of him, and had told me you lay in Carlisle jail charged with his murder. I did urge him to ride at once to Carlisle, and show himself; but he refused. He made light of the matter. Then I told him not so; the circumstances looked ugly, and your life was in peril. Then he said, nay, 'twas in no peril; for if you were to be found guilty, then he would show himself on the instant. Then I told him he was not worthy the name of a man, and if he would not go, I would. "Go you, by all means," said he, "and I'll give
