e body of the hall. The Judge reclined in a
high chair, with a scarlet dais above him, while two other Judges, in
less elevated seats, were stationed on either side of him. On the right
hand was the jury-box, containing twelve carefully picked men--Tories
of the old school--firm upholders of the doctrines of non-resistance and
the divine right of kings. Much care had been taken by the Crown in
the choice of these men, and there was not one of them but would have
sentenced his own father had there been so much as a suspicion that he
leaned to Presbyterianism or to Whiggery. Just under the Judge was a
broad table, covered with green cloth and strewn with papers. On
the right hand of this were a long array of Crown lawyers, grim,
ferret-faced men, each with a sheaf of papers in his hands, which they
sniffed through again and again, as though they were so many bloodhounds
picking up the trail along which they were to hunt us down. On the other
side of the table sat a single fresh-faced young man, in silk gown and
wig, with a nervous, shuffling manner. This was the barrister, Master
Helstrop, whom the Crown in its clemency had allowed us for our defence,
lest any should be bold enough to say that we had not had every fairness
in our trial. The remainder of the court was filled with the servants
of the Justices' retinue and the soldiers of the garrison, who used the
place as their common lounge, looking on the whole thing as a mighty
cheap form of sport, and roaring with laughter at the rude banter and
coarse pleasantries of his Lordship.

The clerk having gabbled through the usual form that we, the prisoners
at the bar, having shaken off the fear of God, had unlawfully and
traitorously assembled, and so onwards, the Lord Justice proceeded to
take matters into his own hands, as was his wont.

'I trust that we shall come well out of this!' he broke out. 'I
trust that no judgment will fall upon this building! Was ever so much
wickedness fitted into one court-house before? Who ever saw such an
array of villainous faces? Ah, rogues, I see a rope ready for every
one of ye! Art not afraid of judgment? Art not afraid of hell-fire? You
grey-bearded rascal in the corner, how comes it that you have not had
more of the grace of God in you than to take up arms against your most
gracious and loving sovereign?'

'I have followed the guidance of my conscience, my Lord,' said the
venerable cloth-worker of Wellington, to whom he spoke.

'