turned to them.

The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little

more than twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father;

a man of a very remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute

whiteness of his hair, and a certain indescribable intensity of face:

not of an active kind, but pondering and self-communing. When

this expression was upon him, he looked as if he were old; but

when it was stirred and broken upas it was now, in a moment,

on his speaking to his daughterhe became a handsome man, not

past the prime of life.

His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as

she sat by him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn

close to him, in her dread of the scene, and in her pity for the

prisoner. Her forehead had been strikingly expressive of an

engrossing terror and compassion that saw nothing but the peril of

the accused. This had been so very noticeable, so very powerfully

and naturally shown, that starers who had had no pity for him

were touched by her; and the whisper went about, “Who are

they?”

Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in

his own manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers

in his absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The

crowd about him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the

nearest attendant, and from him