“Stuart,” Bradshaw was saying, “listen to the roll call of your judges and address to the court any observations you may have to make.”
The king turned his head away, as if these words had not been intended for him. Bradshaw waited, and as there was no reply there was a moment of silence.
Out of the hundred and sixty-three members designated there were only seventy-three present, for the rest, fearful of taking part in such an act, had remained away.
When the name of Colonel Fairfax was called, one of those brief but solemn silences ensued, which announced the absence of the members who had no wish to take a personal part in the trial.
“Colonel Fairfax,” repeated Bradshaw.
“Fairfax,” answered a laughing voice, the silvery tone of which betrayed it as that of a woman, “is not such a fool as to be here.”
A loud laugh followed these words, pronounced with that boldness which women draw from their own weakness—a weakness which removes them beyond the power of vengeance.
“It is a woman’s voice,” cried Aramis; “faith, I would give a good deal if she is young and pretty.” And he mounted on the bench to try and get a sight of her.
“By my soul,” said Aramis, “she is charming. Look D’Artagnan; everybody is looking at her; and in spite of Bradshaw’s gaze she has not turned pale.”
“It is Lady Fairfax herself,” said D’Artagnan. “Don’t you remember, Porthos, we saw her at General Cromwell’s?”