“I will, my lord.”
He made his way to the front of the dock, and looked up at Faradeane.
“You are mad!” he said, in too low a voice for those around to hear. “We plead ‘Not guilty,’ my lord,” he added, firmly.
Faradeane made a slight gesture of weary resignation; and Mr. Sewell, the famous London counsel, rose, hitched his robe on to his shoulder, and commenced his address. The judge leaned back; the deep hush once more settled upon the court.
“My lord and gentlemen of the jury: I shall not have to detain you long with the recital of this tragic story. I shall, in the fewest and plainest words consistent with my painful duty, recount so much of the history of this case as can be sworn to by trustworthy witnesses, who, if they did not actually see the crime committed—and how seldom are there any witnesses present at the precise moment the blow is struck, the shot fired!—who, if they were not actually present at the fatal moment, arrived almost before the breath had left the body of the victim.”
Then, in well-balanced sentences, and in a grave, solemn voice, he told the story of the finding of the dead woman, and the prisoner’s presence near the body, together with the discovery of the revolver bearing his name.
The judge glanced now and again at the pale, composed face of the prisoner, and the crowd marked that, though he kept his eyes fixed on the ground, his face showed no sign of fear or emotion.
“I shall call witnesses who will prove these facts, as I submit, irrefutably. And now, my lord, I come to the point which doubtless you and the gentlemen of the jury have been waiting for—the question of motive. Why should the prisoner, a man of evident refinement, a gentleman on behalf of whose character my learned friend, his counsel, will no doubt bring a cloud of witnesses, commit this awful crime? Why should he shoot this woman? My answer is: Because she was his wife——”
A thrill ran through the court; and as the crowd seemed to stir and sway with astonished excitement, a faint cry rose from Olivia’s lips.
Faradeane heard it, and for a moment he raised his eyes and looked at her—a look that pleaded for forgiveness, for mercy. White as a ghost, she clung to her father’s hand.