It seemed as if an invisible presence had suddenly made itself felt, a spirit from the land of shadows, that awesome precursor of death which is called "Retribution," and that from his ghostly lips there had fallen—unheard yet felt by every heart—the mighty dictate of an almighty will: "Thou shalt do no murder!"
Had the spirit really passed? Who can tell? But the soul of every man and woman there was left quivering. There was not a hand that now did not slightly tremble, not one lid that failed to move, for the supreme moment had come for the accomplishment of an irreparable wrong.
The spectators had before them the picture of that solemn Court, the Lord High Steward with chain and sword of gold, the judges in their red robes, the peers with their ermine, and here and there quaint patches of unexpected colour as the wintry sun struck full through the coloured facets of the huge window beyond and alighted on a black gown or the leather jerkins of the guard.
They saw the halberds of the men-at-arms faintly gleaming in the wan, grey light, the Cardinal's purple robes, a brilliant note amidst the dull mass of browns and blacks; the blue doublet of Sir Henry Beddingfield, a jarring bit of discord between the sable-hued garb of the other gentlemen there.
And there, amongst them all, the tall, erect figure, the one quiet, impassive face in this surging sea of excitement—the prisoner at the bar!
CHAPTER XXXV
THE TRIAL
The excitement, great as it was, had perforce to be kept in check.
The Clerk of the Crown had collected his papers: he now stood up and called upon the accused:
"Robert, Duke of Wessex and of Dorchester, Earl of Launceston, Wexford and Bridthorpe, Baron of Greystone, Ullesthorpe and Edbrooke, Premier Peer of England, hold up thy right hand."