Jeune is
quoting some extraordinary document six hundred years old in reply to
Sir Horace Davey's authority, which only dates back five hundred and
ninety-nine years. It suddenly occurs to me that the Bishop is beside
his Counsel at the other end of the long table, but, alas! there is a
candle in front of him. This is all I can see, so I make my way to the
other side of the table, only to discover that my Bishop is an old lady.
I write on a piece of paper, "Where does the Bishop of Lincoln sit?" and
take it to an official. It is too dark to read, so some time is lost
while he takes my memorandum to a candle. He looks across at me, and
points to a corner.

At last! good! The old gentleman in the corner is in plain clothes, it
is true, but still he looks every inch a Bishop. I cautiously approach
to a coign of vantage close beside him, and have just finished a careful
study of him, when he turns round to me and whispers, "Please, sir, can
you tell me which is the Bishop of Lincoln?" I shake my head angrily,
and move away. This is really humbug. I'll bide my time, and take
Counsel's opinion--I'll ask Mr. Jeune. He is just occupied in answering
the hundred and seventh question of the Bishop of London, and is being
"supported" by Sir Walter Phillimore. Indeed, it amuses me to see the
way in which these two clever Counsel, when in a fog (and are we not all
in one?), hold an animated legal conversation between themselves, and
totally ignore the Bishops--not that the latter seem to mind, for they
scribble away merrily. An evil suspicion creeps into my head that they
are seizing the opportunity to write their next Sunday's sermons.

In the meantime I discover that one of the little side courts is
converted into a studio, with an easel and canvas. I approach my brother
brush, feeling that he, or she, or both (for a lady and a gentleman were
jointly at work upon a picture of the Trial, in black and white--the
black was visible, but there was no chance of seeing the white) will
tell me where I can catch a glimpse of the Bishop of Lincoln. I whisper
the question. But a "Hush!" goes up from the H'Usher, and the artists,
sympathising with me in my dilemma, obtain a candle and point out the
Bishop to me in their picture. I slip away in search of that face. Its
owner ought to be near his Counsel. The severe Sir Horace Davey sits
writing letters; next him is the affable Dr. Tristram, then the rubicund
Mr. Danckwerts, but no Bishop--in