On one side of the pulpit and reader’s desk was the governor’s pew, in which was seated that awful functionary. He was a tall, elderly man, with a partially bald head.
When the service was over and the chaplain had retired, the governor was the first to lead the way out. The door was unlocked by his deputy and down stairs the prisoners were marched in military order.
“You look very ill, sir,” whispered Peace to the cadaverous-looking man who was now next to him.
“Going home,” returned the other. “It matters not whether they convict or acquit me, my race is nearly run.”
“Silence,” exclaimed a warder.
Not another word was spoken. The prisoners went along with their hands behind them like so many schoolboys. The ceremony was humiliating to the last degree.
Peace was directed to cross over to a little office where the governor was standing.
He was then told to take off his boots and stand under a post with numbers on it, with a sliding piece of brass in its centre.
It was a machine for measuring his height.
This was recorded in a book by a clerk.