CHAPTER XXXVIII. PEINE FORTE ET DURE.
The court was densely packed at ten next morning. Every yard of available space was thronged with people. The crown court lay on the west of the Town Hall. It was a large square chamber without galleries. Rude oak, hewn with the axe straight from the tree, formed the rafters and principals of the roofs. The windows were small, and cast a feeble light. A long table like a block of granite, covered with a faded green cloth and having huge carved legs, stood at one end of the court, and stretched almost from side to side. On a dais over this table sat the two judges in high-backed chairs, deeply carved and black. There was a stout rail at one end of the table, and behind it were steps leading to a chamber below. This was the bar, and an officer of the court stood at one side of it. Exactly opposite it were three rows of seats on graduated levels. This was the jury box. Ranged in front of the table were the counsel for the King, the clerk of the court, and two or three lawyers. An ancient oak chest, ribbed with iron and secured by several massive padlocks, stood on the table.
The day was cold. A close mist that had come from the mountains hovered over the court and crept into every crevice, chilling and dank.
There was much preliminary business to go through, and the people who thronged the court watched it with ill-concealed impatience. True bills were found for this offence and that: assaults, batteries, larcenies.
Amid a general hush the crier called for Ralph Ray.
Ralph stepped up quietly, and laid one hand on the rail in front of him. The hand was chained. He looked round. There was not a touch either of pride or modesty in his steady gaze. He met without emotion the sea of faces upturned to his own face. Near the door at the end of the court stood the man who had been known in Lancaster as Ralph's shadow. Their eyes met, but there was no expression of surprise in either face. Close at hand was the burlier ruffian who had insulted the girl that sang in the streets. In the body of the court there was another familiar face. It was Willy Ray's, and on meeting his brother's eyes for an instant Ralph turned his own quickly away. Beneath the bar, with downcast eyes, sat Simeon Stagg.
The clerk of the court was reading a commission authorizing the court to hear and determine treasons, and while this formality was proceeding Ralph was taking note of his judges. One of them was a stout, rubicund person advanced in years. Ralph at once recognized him as a lawyer who had submitted to the Parliament six years before. The other judge was a man of austere countenance, and quite unknown to Ralph. It was the former of the two judges who had the principal management of the case. The latter sat with a paper before his face. The document sometimes concealed his eyes and sometimes dropped below his mouth.
“Gentlemen,” said the judge, beginning his charge, “you are the grand inquest for the body of this county, and you have now before you a prisoner charged with treason. Treason, gentlemen, has two aspects: there is treason of the wicked imagination, and there is treason apparent: the former poisons the heart, the latter breaks forth in action.”
The judge drew his robes about him, and was about to continue, when the paper suddenly dropped from the face of the other occupant of the bench.
“Your pardon, brother Millet,” he interrupted, and pointed towards Ralph's arms. “When a prisoner comes to the bar his irons ought to be taken off. Have you anything to object against these irons being struck away?”
“Nothing, brother Hide,” replied the judge rather testily. “Keeper, knock off the prisoner's irons.”
The official appealed to looked abashed, and replied that the necessary instruments were not at hand.
“They are of no account, my lord,” said Ralph.
“They must be removed.”
When the delay attending this process was over and the handcuffs fell to the ground, the paper rose once more in front of the face of Justice Hide, and Justice Millet continued his charge. He defined the nature and crime of treason with elaboration and circumlocution. He quoted the ancient statute wherein the people, speaking of themselves, say that they recognize no superior under God but only the King's grace. “I do no speak my own words,” he said, “but the words of the law, and I urge this the more lest any persons should draw dangerous inferences to shadow their traitorous acts. Gentlemen, the King is the vicegerent of God, and has no superior. If any man shall shroud himself under any pretended authority, you must know that this is not an excuse, but the height of aggravation.”
Once more the judge paused, drew his robes about him, and turned sharply to the jury to observe the effect of his words; then to his brother on the bench, for the light of his countenance. The paper was covering the eyes of Justice Hide.
“But now, gentlemen, to come from the general to the particular. It is treason to levy war against the King's person, and to levy war against the King's authority is treason too. It follows, therefore, that all acts which were done to the keeping of the King out of the exercise of his kingly office were treason. If persons assembled themselves in a warlike manner to do any of these acts, that was treason. Remember but this, and I have done.”
A murmur of assent and approbation passed over the court when the judge ceased to speak. Perhaps a close observer might have marked an expression of dissatisfaction on the face of the other judge as often as the document held in front of it permitted the eyes and mouth to be seen. He shifted restlessly from side to side while the charge was being delivered, and at the close of it he called somewhat impatiently for the indictment.
The clerk was proceeding to give the names of the witnesses, when Ralph asked to be permitted to see the indictment. With a smile, the clerk handed him a copy in Latin. Ralph glanced at it, threw it back to the table, and asked for a translation.
“Let the indictment be read aloud and in English,” said Justice Hide.
It was then read, and purported that, together with others, Ralph Ray, not having the fear of God before his eyes, and being instigated by the devil, had traitorously and feloniously, contrary to his due allegiance and bounden duty, conspired against the King's authority on sundry occasions and in divers places.
There was a strained attitude of attention while the indictment was being read, and a dead stillness when the prisoner was called upon to plead.
“How sayest thou, Ralph Ray? Art thou guilty of that treason whereof thou standest indicted and for which thou hast been arraigned, or not guilty?”
Ralph did not reply at once. He looked calmly around. Then, in a firm voice, without a trace of emotion, he said,—
“I claim exemption under the Act of Oblivion.”
There was a murmur of inquiry.
“That will avail you nothing,” replied the judge who had delivered the charge. “The Act does not apply to your case. You must plead Guilty or Not Guilty.”
“Have I no right to the benefit of the Act of Oblivion?”
The clerk rose again.
“Are you Guilty or Not Guilty?”
“Have I liberty to move exceptions to the indictment?”
“You shall have the liberty that any subject can have,” replied Justice Millet. “You have heard the indictment read, and you must plead, Guilty or Not Guilty.”
The paper had again gone up before the face of Justice Hide.
“I stand at this bar,” said Ralph quietly, “charged with conspiring against the King's authority. The time of the alleged treason is specified. I move this exception to the indictment, that the King of England was dead at the period named.”
There was some shuffling in the court. The paper had dropped below the eyes.
“You trouble the court with these damnable excursions,” cried Justice Millet, with no attempt to conceal his anger. “By the law of England the King never dies. Your plea must be direct,—'Guilty,' or 'Not Guilty.' No man standing in your position at the bar must make any other answer to the indictment.”
“Shall I be heard, my lord?”
“You shall, sir, but only on your trial.”
“I urge a point of law, and I ask for counsel,” said Ralph; “I can pay.” “You seem to be versed in proceedings of law, young man,” replied the judge, with an undisguised sneer.
The paper dropped below the mouth.
“Mr. Ray,” said Justice Hide, in a friendly tone, “the course is that you should plead.”
“I stand charged, my lord, with no crime. How, then, shall I plead?”
“Mr. Ray,” said the judge again, “I am sorry to interrupt you. I hold that a man in your position should have every leniency shown to him. But these discourses are contrary to all proceedings of this nature. Will you plead?”
“He must plead, brother; there is no will you?” rejoined the other occupant of the bench.
The paper went up over the eyes once more. There was some laughter among the men before the table.
“He thinks it cheap to defy the court,” said counsel for the King.
“Brother Millet,” said Justice Hide, “when a prisoner at the bar would plead anything in formality, counsel should be allowed.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly,” replied the judge, recovering his suavity. Then turning to Ralph, he said,—
“What is the point of law you urge?”
“What I am accused of doing,” replied Ralph, “was done under the command of the Parliament, when the Parliament was the supreme power.”
“Silence, sir,” cried Justice Millet. “The Parliament was made up of a pack of usurpers with a low mechanic fellow at their head. Gentlemen,” turning with a gracious smile to the jury, “you will remember what I said.”
“The Parliament was appointed by the people,” replied Ralph quietly, “and recognized by foreign princes.”
“It was only a third part of the constitution.”
“It did not live in a corner. The sound of it went out among many nations.”
Ralph still spoke calmly. The spectators held their breath.
“Do you know where you are, sir?” cried the judge, now grown scarlet with anger. “You are in the court of his Majesty the King. Would you have the boldness here, before the faces of the servants of that gracious Prince, to justify your crimes by claiming for them the authority of usurpers?” “I am but charged,” replied Ralph, “with putting my hand to that plough which all men were then compelled to follow. I am but accused of fidelity to that cause which some of my prosecutors, as I see, did themselves at first submit to, and afterwards betray.”
At this there were loud murmurs in the court. The paper had fallen from the face of Justice Hide. His brother justice was livid with rage.
“What fellow is this?” said the latter judge, with obvious uneasiness. “A dalesman from the mountains, did you say?”
“Dalesman or not, my lord, a cunning and dangerous man,” replied counsel.
“I see already that he is one who is ready to say anything to save his miserable life.”
“Brother Millet,” interrupted the other judge, “you have rightly observed that this is a court of his Gracious Majesty. Let us conduct it as such.”
There was a rustle of gowns before the table and some whispering in the court.
“Mr. Ray, you have heard the indictment. It charges you as a false traitor against his Most Gracious Majesty, your supreme and natural lord. The course is for you to plead Guilty or Not Guilty.”
“Have I no right to the General Pardon?” asked Ralph.
Justice Millet, recovering from some temporary discomfiture, interposed,—
“The proclamation of pardon was issued before his Majesty came into possession.”
“And my crime—was not that committed before the King came into possession? Are the King's promises less sacred than the people's laws?”
Again some murmuring in the court.
“Brother Hide, is the court to be troubled longer with these idle disputations?”
“I ask for counsel,” said Ralph.
“This,” replied Justice Hide, “is not a matter in which counsel can be assigned. If your crime be treason, it cannot be justified; if it be justifiable, it is not treason. The law provides that we shall be your counsel, and, as such, I advise that you do not ask exemption under the Act of Oblivion, for that is equal to a confession.” “I do not confess,” said Ralph.
“You must plead Guilty or Not Guilty. There is no third course. Are you Guilty or Not Guilty?”
There was a stillness like that of the chamber of death in the court as this was spoken.
Ralph paused, lifted his head, and looked calmly about him. Every eye was fixed on his face. That face was as firm as a rock. Two eyes near the door were gleaming with the light of fiendish triumph. Ralph returned his gaze to the judges. Still the silence was unbroken. It seemed to hang in the air.
“Guilty or Not Guilty?”
There was no reply.
“Does the prisoner refuse to plead?” asked Justice Hide. Still there was no reply. Not a whisper in the court; not the shuffle of a foot. The judge's voice fell slowly on the ear,—
“Ralph Ray, we would not have you deceive yourself. If you do not plead, it will be the same with you as if you had confessed.”
“Am I at liberty to stand mute?”
“Assuredly not,” Justice Millet burst out, pulling his robes about him.
“Your pardon, brother; it is the law that the prisoner may stand mute if he choose.”
Then turning to Ralph,—
“But why?”
“To save from forfeiture my lands, sheep, goods, and chattels, and those of my mother and brother, falsely stated to be mine.”
Justice Millet gave an eager glance at Justice Hide.
“It is the law,” said the latter, apparently replying to an unuttered question. “The estate of an offender cannot be seized to the King's use before conviction. My Lord Coke is very clear on that point. It is the law; we must yield to it.”
“God forefend else!” replied Justice Millet in his meekest tone.
“Ralph Ray,” continued the judge, “let us be sure that you know what you do. If you stand mute a terrible punishment awaits you.”
Justice Millet interposed,—
“I repeat that the prisoner must plead. In the ancient law of peine forte et dure an exception is expressly made of all cases of regicide.”
“The indictment does not specify regicide as the prisoner's treason.”
Justice Millet hid his discomfiture in an ostentatious perusal of a copy of the indictment.
“But do not deceive yourself,” continued the judge, turning again towards the prisoner. “Do you know the penalty of standing mute? Do you know that to save your estates to your family by refusing to plead, you must suffer a terrible death,—a death without judgment, a death too shocking perhaps for so much as bare contemplation? Do you know this?”
The dense throng in the court seemed not to breathe at that awful moment. Every one waited for the reply. It came slowly and deliberately,—
“I know it.”
The paper dropped from the judge's hand, and fluttered to the floor. In the court there was a half-uttered murmur of amazement. A man stood there to surrender his life, with all that was near and dear to it. Not dogged, trapped, made desperate by fate, but cheerfully and of his own free will.
Wonder and awe fell on that firmament of faces. Brave fellows there found the heart swell and the pulse beat quick as they saw that men— plain, rude men, Englishmen, kinsmen—might still do nobly. Cowards shrank closer together.
And, in the midst of all, the man who stood to die wore the serenest look to be seen there. Not an eye but was upturned to his placid face.
The judge's voice broke the silence,—
“And was it with this knowledge and this view that you surrendered?”
Ralph folded his arms across his breast and bowed.
The silence could be borne no longer. The murmurs of the spectators broke into a wild tumult of cheers, like the tossing of many waters; like the roar and lash of mighty winds that rise and swell, then ebb and surge again.
The usher of the court had not yet suppressed the applause, when it was observed that a disturbance of another kind had arisen near the door. A young woman with a baby in her arms was crushing her way in past the javelin man stationed there, and was craning her neck to catch sight of the prisoner above the dense throng that occupied every inch of the floor.
“Let me have but a glance at him—one glance—for the dear God's sake let me but see him—only once—only for a moment.”
The judge called for silence, and the officer was hurrying the woman away when Ralph turned his face full towards the door.
“I see him now,” said the woman. “He's not my husband. No,” she added, “but I've seen him before somewhere.”
“Where, my good woman? Where have you seen him before the day?”
This was whispered in her ear by a man who had struggled his way to her side.
“Does he come from beyond Gaskarth?” she asked.
“Why, why?”
“This commotion ill befits the gravity of a trial of such grave concernment,” said one of the judges in an austere tone.
In another moment the woman and her eager interlocutor had left the court together.
There was then a brief consultation between the occupants of the bench.
“The pardon is binding,” said one; “if it were otherwise it were the hardest case that could be for half the people of England.”
“Yet the King came back without conditions,” replied the other.
There was a general bustle in the court. The crier proclaimed silence.
“The prisoner stands remanded for one week.”
Then Ralph was removed from the bar.