A shout of astonishment from the officers present greeted the name, all eyes were turned on the informer. Only Colonel Kirke remained silent, but he turned in his chair, and leaned forward with an eager glint in his eyes, and his teeth gleamed white behind his black beard.
Then Cicely told her story. The silence, the universal attention frightened her. She stammered, broke down, struggled on again. Only the thought of Barbara nerved her to a finish. Jeffreys helped her by an occasional sharp question, the rest of her audience sat in silence.
When she had finished her tale she turned to the lord chief justice eagerly.
"Is—is that a hanging matter, my lord?" she asked, shuddering involuntarily at the question.
"Oh, aye, 'twill serve, I doubt not."
"Then the pardon, my lord," she urged timidly.
"Pardon? Eh, what? What pardon?"
"For my cousin, Mistress Winslow. You swore she should be pardoned, if I spoke."
Jeffreys looked round the table with a low laugh of amusement. Then he slowly drained his glass.
"To be sure," he said. "To be sure. She shall be pardoned, freely pardoned—when her sentence has been executed."