The spectators drew a long breath, as he concluded, and all eyes turned to the prisoner.
He had scarcely moved; but the weary expression on his face had deepened, and he looked as if the crowded court had slipped from his consciousness, and he was going back, mentally, to the terrible folly of his life.
A thrill of pity stirred the hearts of the crowd, and one or two women put their handkerchiefs to their eyes and sobbed audibly.
The excitement was intense. Mr. Sewell conferred for a moment with the solicitor for the prosecution, and the counsel called:
“Viscount Bortoun.”
A young man, the son of a well-known statesman, stepped into the box, and with a sad look at Faradeane, repeated the words of the oath.
“Do you know the prisoner?”
“Yes, indeed, I do,” was the low and mournful reply. “He is the Earl of Clydesfold,” and he looked at Faradeane as if imploring his pardon for appearing against him. “I came here because I was obliged,” he faltered.
“That will do, my lord; we can understand how painful it must be for you,” said Mr. Sewell, gently; and the viscount stepped from the box.
“I shall now call witnesses to the marriage.”