hat they must
maintain. A few weeks before, this man had written a letter to him--an
insulting letter--forbidding him to approach his daughter; and now he,
the judge, sat in his seat of authority, while Paul was in the dock.

His gaze swept round the room. He recognised many faces. He saw
Edward Wilson, father of the murdered man, pale as ashes, and with set,
stern face. He saw the Mayor of Brunford and some of the councillors.
He saw men who had fought for him at the last election--men with whom
he had done business. He saw people of the common orders--some of them
were his own employees--who a week or two before had paid him homage in
so far as any Lancashire man pays homage to his employer.

No; it was not like an ordinary trial at all, and yet the issues were
tragic. The air seemed to pulsate with doom. No word had yet been
spoken, and yet men's hearts were beating wildly. Even the barristers,
who sat looking at the prisoner, seemed strangely moved.

The clerk of the assizes rose, arranged his wig, settled his gown.

"Order! Order!" shouted the ushers.

The clerk read the indictment in solemn and impressive tones. Few
remembered the words he said, but all realised their purport. Paul
Stepaside, standing there in the prisoner's dock, was indicted for the
murder of Edward Wilson.

"Are you guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty," replied the prisoner. There was not a tremor in his
voice, and many thought, as they looked at him, that he seemed to
regard the question as an insult.

The jury had been sworn. This was a somewhat tedious proceeding, the
swearing of the jury, and on Paul's face passed a look of contempt. It
seemed so tiresome, this reading of a formula to twelve men, making
them promise that they would consider the case "without fear or favour,
upon the evidence given," and so on and so on. Still it was necessary,
even although in many cases it might have become a mere matter of form.
Certainly, too, each juryman seemed to realise the importance of his
position and the seriousness of what he had to do. They were not men
of great intellectual acumen, these jurymen--just kind-hearted,
commonplace men who had been selected for the purpose. Still, they
would do as well as others who might be got. They would hear the
evidence given. They would listen attentively to the counsel's words
and to the judge's summing up.

At length all was ready, and the jurymen settled in their seats, each
w