The wild confusion died finally away in a sullen murmur. Five, ten minutes passed. Voices, somehow incongruous, unnatural, broke the otherwise tense silence—those of the judge, the district attorney, and once Randall's in a broken plea for clemency to the jury. And then Varge stood up to face the twelve men who had not left the box, and the single, ominous words fell from the foreman's lips.
"Guilty."
The district attorney rose from his chair.
"May it please the court, it becomes my duty to move that sentence be passed upon the prisoner, and I so move."
Judge Crosswaite, too, had risen, and a stillness, awed, more intense than any that had preceded it, was upon the room, as he spoke.
"Varge, have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you?"
"Nothing," Varge answered, in a low voice—and bowed his head.
"The extreme penalty under the statutes of this Commonwealth for the crime you have committed," said Judge Crosswaite, in stern, grave tones, "is death. But your previous record, your voluntary confession, seem to me just grounds for invoking the mercy of the law." There was a pause, then came the solemn words: "The sentence of this court is that you be taken to the town of Hebron and be there confined in the State Penitentiary for the rest of your natural life."
