“Do you plead guilty, prisoner?” he asked, in the slow, judicial tone, impartial, almost insentient. “Where is the counsel for the defense?”
“I desire no counsel, my lord,” said Faradeane, in a voice that, though low, was distinct enough to reach the remotest corner of the court.
The judge looked at him thoughtfully for the space of a moment.
“Do you say that you are undefended?”
“I have no defense, my lord,” came the response, almost apathetic in its calm weariness.
Olivia’s heart seemed to stand still. She clutched her father’s arm.
“Father! father!”
“Hush!” he said, and looked toward the judge.
“Prisoner, are you sensible of the awful position in which you stand? I fear not. But it is my duty to see that you have a fair trial, without fear or favor. With the sense of my responsibility upon me, I take upon myself to advise you to withdraw that plea and to permit a counsel to defend you. Mr. Edgar”—and he leaned forward and addressed a young barrister—“will you defend the prisoner?”
The young counsel sprang to his feet at once, and bowed to the judge.