For that foul verdict, bought with gold wrung from the very blood and marrow of countless toilers, opened the way to the sentence which Judge Harpies regretted only that he could not make more severe--the sentence which the detectives and the prison authorities, well "fixed," counted on making a death-sentence, too.
"Gabriel Armstrong, stand up!" He arose and faced the court.

A deathlike stillness hushed the room, crowded with Socialists, reporters, emissaries of Flint, private detectives and hangers-on of the System.

Heavily veiled, lest some of her father's people recognize her, Catherine herself sat in a back seat, very pale yet calm.
"Prisoner at the bar, have you anything to say, why sentence should not be pronounced upon you ?" Gabriel, also a little pale, but with a steadfast and fearless gaze, looked at the legal prostitute upon the bench, and shook his head in negation.

He deigned not, even, to answer this kept puppet of the ruling class.
Judge Harpies frowned a trifle, cleared his throat, glanced about him with pompous dignity; and then, in a sonorous and impressive tone--his best asset on the bench, for legal knowledge and probity were not his--announced: "_It is the judgment of this court that you do stand committed to pay a fine of three thousand dollars into the treasury of the United States, and to serve five years at hard labor in the Federal Penitentiary at Atlanta!_".