lowest the law allows: namely, one day's imprisonment with hard labor.
This unlooked-for clemency staggered the prisoner. Oblivious of every fact but the terrible one that Dennis Rumpety had died by his hand, he had nerved himself for what he believed would be his death-blow. The tension had been too great; he could not bear its sudden removal.
"Say, your honor," he cried, regardless of court etiquette,—"say, your honor, couldn't you lay it on a little heavier?"
"The court sees no reason for altering its decision," his honor replied, gravely, passing on to the delivery of the next sentence.
But after the court had adjourned, the judge stepped up to the prisoner and said, kindly, "I wouldn't take it too hard, if I were you, Rankin. We all know that there was no murder in your heart."
"Yes, there was, your honor. Yes, there was."
"At any rate, the man's death was clearly not your deed. It was the hand of the Lord that did it."
"I don't know, your honor," Rankin persisted. "It feels to me as though it was me that done it."
