“Did he strike the deceased?”
“Certainly. Struck ’im in the bar, in the passage, an’ kicked ’im into the street.”
“You swear to that?”
“Decidedly. I seen ’im do it.”
“Thank you. You may stand down—unless, of course, my friend the counsel for the defence would like to ask a question.”
Scarlett’s barrister, a man of jovial countenance, smiled, and shook his head.
“Call Rachel Varnhagen.”
The pretty Jewess, dressed in black, walked modestly into the Court, mounted the step or two which led to the witness-box, and bowed to the Judge and jury.
“I should be pleased to spare you the pain of appearing as a witness in this case,” said the barrister for the Crown, looking his softest at the lovely Rachel, “but the importance I attach to the evidence I believe you will give, is so great that I am forced to sacrifice my private feelings upon the altar of Justice. I believe you know the prisoner at the bar?”
“Yes, I do,” replied Rachel, in a very low voice.