A youth, repulsed from the door which gives admittance to the upper chambers, retired with despairing gesture; his face bore marks of intense emotion, the tears had worn furrows therein, and from time to time a sob escaped him.
A companion pressed up to his side.
“Will they not let you in?”
“No, Gregory, I have begged in vain these three times.”
“Why not try the sheriff, he is said to be merciful?”
“I can but try, I will go to his house at once.”
As due to his office, the high sheriff of the county was charged with the details of the morrow’s tragedy; he liked the task but little, still he viewed it as a simple matter of duty, and could not flinch from it.
He was resting after the fatigues of the day, and in truth, thinking very uneasily over the events of the trial.
“What if, after all, he is in the right—that appeal to the judgment bar above was very solemn—when that great assize takes place, in whose shoes would it be best to stand, in the place of the judge or the felon of to-day?”
A domestic entered—“A lad craves a moment’s speech.”