THE SENTENCE
EVERYONE IN THE CASTLE AND IN THE village was exceedingly anxious to know what sentence would be pronounced on Mary. They trembled for her life; for in those times theft was punished with excessive severity. Many had suffered death for stealing articles of much less value than the ring.
The Count earnestly desired that Mary's innocence could be proved. He carefully reexamined all the evidence—he had many a consultation with the judge; but they could discover no means of acquitting her, for it seemed an utter impossibility that anyone else could have taken the ring.
The Countess and her daughter earnestly entreated for Mary's pardon, and even implored it with tears. Poor old James, unable to help her in any other way, spent his time in almost incessant prayer for her.
Every time that Mary heard the jailer's step, she imagined that he was coming to lead her to execution. The people in the prison had, in truth, begun to prepare for it.
One day, as Margaret was passing, she saw some of these preparations, and she was struck with remorse. That evening all the servants in the castle perceived that she was suffering some concealed agony of mind. She passed a wretched night. Mary's pale face haunted even her dreams, yet this miserable creature had not the courage to do what she could to atone for her crime, by confessing it in time to save Mary.
The judge at length pronounced sentence. Although Mary had incurred the punishment of death, it was commuted into a sentence of perpetual banishment in consideration of her youth and of her previous excellent conduct. This sentence was extended to James also; and everything they possessed was confiscated, as it was taken for granted that he was either the accomplice of her crime, or that his bad example or neglect had helped to lead her astray. Her punishment would have been more severe had it not been for the earnest entreaty of the Count and his family. James and Mary were ordered to be conducted over the frontier by the police; and their journey was to begin the very next day.
Early in the morning, as Mary and her father passed before the castle gate with the police officer, Margaret came out. She had recovered her usual spirits. She did not wish that Mary should be put to death, but she had no objection to her banishment. As soon as she found that Mary's life was spared, her jealousy of her revived in full vigor. She hated her still, and still envied the love that the young Countess had shown her.
A few days before, Amelia, having seen on a sideboard the basket which Mary had given her, had said to Margaret, "Take this basket out of my sight; it recalls so much that is painful that I cannot bear to see it."
Margaret took the basket and kept it in her own room, and now brought it out at this trying moment. "Here," said she, "take your fine present, Miss Mary; my lady can receive no presents from such as you. You thought yourself high in her favor; but all your fancied greatness has withered like the flowers you brought, for which you were so well paid. I have the greatest pleasure, Miss Mary, in giving you back your fine basket." So saying, she threw the basket at Mary's feet; and with a sneering laugh she went back into the castle, shutting the gate as she passed, with a loud noise.
Mary, with tears in her eyes, silently picked up the basket, and went on her melancholy way. Her poor father had nothing, not even a stick, to support his tottering steps, and her basket was now her only possession.
With eyes blinded with tears she passed each familiar spot. She gazed on the cottage where she had spent so many happy days; and turned to look again and again at this dear home, till first the cottage, then the castle, and last of all the spire of the village church, disappeared from her sight behind a hill covered with trees.
When Mary and James reached the frontier, in the middle of a deep forest, the police officer left them. Poor old James was by this time so worn out with grief and fatigue that he could walk no further, and sank down exhausted on a stone covered with moss, under the shade of an old oak tree.
After resting for a few minutes, he called Mary to his side. "Come, my child," said he, making her kneel down by him; "before we leave our native country let us give thanks to God, who has saved you from death; who has restored you, my darling, to me; and who has given to us both freedom to go where we will, and to enjoy the fresh air under the open sky, instead of being immured in a close and gloomy prison."
Then raising his eyes to heaven, he prayed thus: "Our Father which art in heaven, the only hope of Thy children upon earth, the protector of the oppressed, we thank Thee that Thou hast saved us from fetters, from prison, and from death. We thank Thee for all the blessings Thou hast given us during our past life. We thank Thee for all the blessings Thou art still giving us, in sparing us to each other, and in giving us freedom from bondage; in bestowing on us the support of Thy word and Thy promises in this life, and the glorious hope of a blessed immortality beyond death and the grave, through our Lord Jesus Christ.
"We cannot leave our native land without imploring Thy merciful care and guidance in the foreign land to which we are driven. Deign, O Lord, to look down in pity on an afflicted old man and his suffering child and take us under Thy merciful protection. Be our guide and guard through the dangers to which we may be exposed. Conduct our steps, we pray Thee, among those who are Thy people, and incline their hearts to pity us.
"Grant us, O Lord, in this Thy world, a little corner, where we may finish our pilgrimage in quiet and die in peace. We believe that Thou hast already prepared for us our destined habitation, though we know not where it is. Enable us to go on our way in faith and trust in Thee, till Thou shalt bring us to the place where Thou choosest us to dwell. Strengthen us, we pray Thee, for our journey, and grant us Thy peace, for our Lord Jesus Christ's sake."
When they had thus prayed (for every word of her father's prayer was reechoed in Mary's heart), they rose from their knees refreshed and comforted, and prepared to go on their way with courage, and even with joy. So wonderfully does prayer relieve and strengthen the soul.
Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;
Prayer's the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.
O Thou by whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way,
The path of prayer thyself hast trod;
O teach us how to pray.