ty. But--the girl's story was true. His mind was not
nimble enough to escape the shock of that fact. He was helpless under
it. His pleading was spiritless and wandering while his mind stood
aside to grapple with that one astounding thing.

The Judge, however, in charging the jury was troubled by none of these
hampering limitations of mind. He had always regarded the taking and
discussion of evidence as a rather wearisome and windy business. All
democracy was full of such wasteful and time-killing ways of coming to
a conclusion. The boy was guilty. The powers who controlled the county
had said he was guilty. Why spoil good time, then, quibbling.

He charged the jury that the girl's testimony was no more credible
than that of a dozen other witnesses--which was quite true. All had
told the truth as they understood it, and saw it. But he glided
smoothly over the one important difference. The girl had seen the act.
No other, not even the accused himself, had been able to say that.

He delivered an extemporaneous and daringly false lecture on the
comparative force of evidence, intended only to befog the minds of the
jurors. But the effect of it was exactly the opposite to that which he
had intended, for, whereas they had up to now held a fairly clear view
of the things that had been proven by the adroit handling of his facts
by the District Attorney, they now forgot all that structure of guilt
which he so laboriously built up and remembered only one thing
clearly. And that thing was the story of Cynthe Cardinal.

Without leaving their seats, they intimated that they had come to an
agreement.

The Judge, glowering dubiously at them, demanded to know what it was.

Jeffrey Whiting stood up.

The foreman rose and faced the Judge stubbornly, saying:

"Not guilty."

The Judge polled the jury, glaring fiercely at each man as his name
was called, but one after another the men arose and answered gruffly
for acquittal. The hill people rushed from the courthouse, running for
their horses and shouting the verdict as they ran. Then sleepy little
Danton awoke from its September drowse and was aware that something
real had happened. The elaborate machinery of prosecution, the whole
political power of the county, the mighty grip and pressure of the
railroad power had all been set at nothing by the tragic little love
story of an ignorant French girl from the hills.

Dardis led Jeffrey Whiting down from the place where he had been a