Taking another from a box alongside of him, he placed it on the table and in the faro-box and sat down again to the game. Devine began to bet more circumspectly; but the continuous luck seemed to have changed with his last bet. Sometimes favorable, sometimes unfavorable, he seemed to retain about the same amount before him for a long time. Again fortune smiled: a long series of bets were won and his pile accumulated largely, while the bank itself showed signs of its depletion. Again Devine gathered his money in one heap, counted the exact amount in the bank, and "covered it," that is, placed the amount from his own pile against the bank's. It was the grand coup d'état of the evening. The bet was an enormous one even for those days, and the whole tent was attracted by the buzz that greeted the act. The banker sat in his seat like a statue, his nostrils strongly dilated. As he began to draw, his fingers pressed nervously on the centre of the cards. Devine suddenly sprang to his feet with an oath, drew his pistol, exclaiming "I will have no waxed cards - let me see your box!" It was handed him. "Draw yourself," said the dealer in a husky tone. Devine drew one, two, three. He had lost all. His pile was rapidly counted it lacked three hundred dollars of the sum in the bank. Muttering a curse, he looked around for some one from whom to borrow, but in vain; he saw no eye friendly enough to ask, and no one offered. The gambler must have gold to gamble with. It matters not how it comes a gambling debt is a "debt of honor "—it must be paid. Before this "debt of honor," good name, principle, honesty, honor itself, have gone down in irremediable ruin. There were no restraints of public sentiment and public morality in those days. Apparently there was no such thing as sin; and crime was only such as it affected an individual or shocked a community. The aggravation of a crime was in proportion as it affected a person who was held in esteem by his friends. A friendless wretch might be robbed and murdered with impunity, though vengeance was sometimes terrible on him who injured a man who had friends. Friends too were not always the result of a high, manly, and honest life. Any man with brute courage and physical prowess would have troops of so-called friends ready to. avenge his quarrels or help him in extremity.

Devine had neither high principle nor great courage to attract others; and he stood alone. He strode to the bar, asked the loan of three hundred dollars for the bank. It was refused. Maddened at the refusal, he turned away, and suddenly the nugget he had heard talked of as in his wife's possession flashed across his memory, and he hurried across the street to his home.

Hardly had he left when the occupants of the Round Tent were apparently as unconscious of the excitement his large betting had occasioned as though nothing of the sort had happened. The sound of human voices rolled on like the murmuring of a mighty stream. The call of the bankers, the silvery voice and ringing laugh of Madame Pomp, the clink of gold, the click of glass against glass, the thump of the bag of gold-dust thrown by the miner on the gamblingtable - all went on as they had before.

A quick, sharp report broke on their ears. Reports of pistols in the streets were not unusual then, but this was the sharp ringing.

sound of a rifle. Yet this would not have attracted much attention, but it was followed by a wild, shrill female shriek, “Oh, my God, my God, he has killed me!" then a heavy fall and the affrighted cry of a child. The crowd stood for an instant appalled; then rushing to the door, they saw a white object lying on the ground and a few persons standing over it endeavoring to lift it up. It was Marm Devine. By her side stood little Bill Sykes-both in night-clothes, both covered with blood.

It was soon after Herb Woodland had left the tent, when as he was walking up and down the road his attention had been caught by the rapid strides of Devine as he crossed the narrow street between his dwelling and the Round Tent. As he continued his walk and approached Devine's house, he heard loud and excited talking, but had not heeded it much; until at length the door was suddenly thrown open and shut again, and as Mrs. Devine attempted to descend the steps he heard the report of the rifle, the scream of Marm Devine and the cry of the little boy. He hastened to the spot, and it was he and Devine, fully sobered now, who stood over the prostrate form and endeavored to raise her from the ground

Herb had been educated for the medical profession, and his skill was now called into requisition. Assisted by those who came from the Round Tent, Marm Devine was tenderly and carefully conveyed to her bed. An examination of the wound showed that there was no hope. Madame Pomp ministered with her own hands to the dying woman, staunched her blood with her costly handkerchiefs, bathed her brow in the rare perfumes from her own toilet, supported her soiled head against her rich dress, and showed that the last remnants of a womanly nature had not entirely flickered out in the child of sin. "Oh, Nan, Nan," exclaimed Devine as Herb told him the last scene was drawing near, "has it come to this that I should kill you!" He bowed his head upon her and wept great, hot, bitter, scalding tears. She raised her arms, placed them around his neck, and with faltering voice said, "I never wronged you, as your wife, dear; but this is my fault-all my fault-tell them so. Doctor, tell them that dying I said it was my fault. Oh, Devine, if then- then when you stayed at home and was sober, after striking little Bill, I had only done right-loved you as I should - then you would not have gone wrong again! Oh, tell them all it was my fault!" She closed her eyes, gave one short cough, the blood gushed from her mouth over the rich lace of Madame Pomp's dress, and Marm Devine was no

more.

For once all was still in the Round Tent. Most of the lights had been extinguished; the tables had been cleared; but the crowd that assembled was immense. Every available space was occupied by men, who spoke with bated breath and but few words. A "good woman killed, murdered in cold blood, by her husband - a "good woman" taken away; and her deeds of kindness to sick and unfortunate miners, her care of little Bill, her purity amid the impure and unholy surroundings of her life, were spoken of, and many a threat against Brown and his house was muttered that night. They had one of their sudden attacks of "legal right." It was before California had

been admitted as a State; and any blessing that organisation and law might have conferred upon others in the Territory, had not yet reached the mines, where each community did that which was right in its own eyes.

During the time of waiting in the Round Tent a sort of organisation had been improvised, the object of which was "to punish crime and stop vice," as its preamble vauntingly asserted; and they only waited to know the result to arrest the offender in this case. Brown well knew that such organisations never stopped at any half-way measures, and his cunning was at work, not to stem, but to direct the tide of popular opinion that it might not visit his own head.

When Marm Devine breathed her last, Herb stepped over to the Round Tent and made the announcement. He told them of the dying scene, of Devine's contrition and remorse, of Marm Devine's dying request, and left them with the feeling that all young men have of the triumph of the right.

The officers who had been appointed by the organisation entered the room where Devine was sitting by the dead body of his wife. They arrested him "in the name of the miners and citizens of El Dorado County." He heard them with an apparently stupid indifference. He still sat in his seat by the bedside, and two of their number were detailed to remain. The group remained silent, with the exception of a deep groan that broke from Devine when he turned his face towards his wife. Little Bill Sykes rested his head in peaceful and innocent slumber upon the guilty bosom of Madame Pomp, who remained in a constrained and cramped position for hours, lest a movement might awaken him to grief, and she wept bitter tears of remorse over her wicked life that forbade her taking the little orphan to her home and heart.

VI.

THE TRIAL. THE SENTENCE. THE EXECUTION.

The organisation mentioned in the last chapter, felt it their duty promptly to inform the residents in the vicinity of their action, and the intended trial of a man accused of the murder of a "good woman"- his own wife. Early the next morning the miners for miles around were seen gathering in bands and taking their way towards Kanoôngville. The claims, the cabins, the gulches, were deserted for the day, and before ten o'clock at least five hundred men had assembled together in the streets All business was suspended. Little groups were standing around discussing the event which had summoned them. There was a general feeling that some decisive action would be taken, and there was a united wish that whatever might be done should be done calmly and deliberately.

At the call of a crier and the sound of a gong the people flocked to the Round Tent, which had been metamorphosed into a court room. The tables had been taken from the walls and so placed that they served for a platform on which might be seated judges, jury, the

prisoner, and a few others. When the Tent was crowded as full as it could hold, a young lawyer-Jett, as he was called-mounted the platform in his miner's garb and addressed the silent and expectant crowd. He said :-"Gentlemen: the painful occurrence which has assembled us here is known to you all. In the absence of all proper legal authority for the punishment of crime, it is not only right, but the bounden duty of a community to organise for self-protection. When the crime, upon the examination of which we are about entering, was committed, the citizens of Kanoôngville organised themselves into a committee for the purpose of investigating it properly, and of meting out to the criminal such punishment as a jury of his fellows might deem justifiable. It is not for me to say one word as to the nature of the case which you are called upon to try. I am requested to say to you that a competent judge and jury shall be selected by you and sworn to the best of their ability to do justice to the prisoner, and at the same time to do that which shall hereafter secure peace and quiet to the town. You are now requested to nominate some one for judge."

There was a low murmuring among those present until some one arose and nominated Captain John Fleming as presiding judge. The Captain objected strongly, not only as knowing nothing of law, but as being interested his boy being a party. "We want a man strong in truth and honesty, brave and above reproach," said the man who nominated him ; we do not want lawyers but men to judge this case" and so Captain John Fleming was inducted Judge.

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The Captain ascended the platform: "Gentlemen," said he, “I— you that is this is aa trying and responsible position, gentlemen; and I will — I will — that is, gentlemen, I must incline to mercy that's it, gentlemen we must be merciful." No one objected. A jury of twelve, selected with care from the miners, were appointed. Young Jett was named by Judge Fleming as counsel for the defence; and "Buck," likewise a mining lawyer, for the prosecution. Both of these gentlemen have since made an honorable name in the courts of California.

All the preliminaries being settled, and judge and jury being sworn with uplifted hands — a Bible not being procurable at all— the Court proceeded to the trial.

Judge Fleming with a trembling voice, but with unusual coherency of speech, addressed the prisoner, who had been brought on the platform through a rear door. "Sir, you have been arrested for the commission of a crime the commission of which has fallen on this community with startling effect. We feel that something should be done. to deter others who are equally criminal among us the very root of the evil must be abolished-and your crime, if proved, will neces sarily bring to view the sources whence spring these evils. Prisoner, stand up." Devine with a calm composed air arose, his face pallid and careworn, but betokening no great emotion of any kind. When Captain Fleming alluded to the probability of the investigation bringing to view the sources of crime in Kanoôngville, it was hardly noticed then, but remembered afterwards, that one or two men who had been long known as habitués of Brown's dance-house, be

came very attentive, and when he concluded, as silently as possible left the house. The judge then asked the prisoner, "Guilty, or not guilty?" Devine said, "Captain-Judge-I am guilty of having killed my poor wife;" here his sobs prevented his speaking for a few moments, "but," he at length resumed, "I am not guilty of the crime of murder." The latter part of this was spoken in a clear, manly voice and was heard in every part of the tent. Its effect was favorable for the prisoner, and as he sat down a buzz of approval was heard all over the court. One or two more of Jo Brown's gang left. The prosecuting attorney said but little. After stating the case, he proceeded to show what punishment was due to such a crime if wickedly and premeditatedly committed. Death was too good for such a one; but there were circumstances which might take this case out of their hands, he said, and leave it to the slow and uncertain chances of the law. That must be determined by the evidence. He would make no appeal to the jury until the evidence had been brought out.

The counsel for the prisoner spoke longer. He began to warm up in his defence. "My client, gentlemen, has in an outspoken and manly way told us he was moved by no malicious feeling in this act : that while guilty of the deed which has terminated this good and useful woman's life — a deed which he deplores with a despair which could find relief in the most awful punishment you could inflict-he is yet guiltless of that criminal intent which constitutes the crime of murder. It will be my duty, and it lies in my power, to convince you that at the time the rifle was fired, it was to all human appearance impossible to kill the victim who fell. It is true, appearances are against him; but we must believe justice and truth will finally prevail in aiding you to make up your minds."

The first witness that was called was little Bill Sykes. He had stood by Captain Fleming during the first part of the trial, with a fearing and trembling look; and as he stood before the jury, his little frame was convulsed with sobs.

"Little boy, listen to me," said Buck, in a kind and sympathetic voice which seemed to attract the child's attention directly. "Now, little Bill, can you count?

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Yes, sir," replied the boy.

"Count ten, then." The boy did as desired.

"Who taught you to count?

"Marm Divine," with a trembling voice and tearful eye.

"Did she teach you anything else?"

"Yes, sir, a great many things."

"Did she teach you to be a good boy?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did she teach you would be done if you were not a good

boy?"

"She said nobody would love me, sir."

"Do you know what a lie is?"

"Yes, sir: when a person does not say what is so."

"Yes, my little boy; and what will be done with people who tel lies?"

The little fellow's eyes swam with tears as he looked up and replied, "Marm Devine said that God would not love me."