The day at length arrived; and even within the dreary walls of the prison were heard the murmured accents of excitement as the great hour drew nigh.
Mr. Goring at an early hour had visited the prisoner, to entreat him, for the last time, to abandon his mad refusal of legal aid; explaining forcibly that there were constantly cases occurring where innocence could only be asserted by disentangling the ingenious tissue with which legal astuteness can invest a circumstance. Cashel rejected this counsel calmly but peremptorily; and when pressed home by other arguments, in a moment of passing impatience confessed that he was “weary of life, and would make no effort to prolong it.”
“Even so, sir,” said Goring. “There is here another question at issue. Are you satisfied to fill the dishonored grave of a criminal? Does not the name by which men will speak of you hereafter possess any terror for you now?”
A slight tremor shook Cashel's voice as he replied, “Were I one who left kindred or attached friends behind him, these considerations would have their weight, nor would I willingly leave them the heritage of such disgrace; but I am alone in the world, without one to blush for my dishonor, or shed a tear over my sorrow. The calumny of my fellowmen will only fall on ears sealed by death; nor will their jeers break the slumber I am so soon to sleep.”
Goring labored hard to dissuade him from his resolve, but to no purpose. The only consolation of which Roland seemed capable arose from the dogged indifference he felt as to the result, and the consciousness of an innocence he was too proud to assert.
From an early hour of the morning the court was crowded. Many persons distinguished in the world of fashion were to be seen amid the gowned and wigged throng that filled the body of the building; and in the galleries were a vast number of ladies, whose elegance of dress told how much they regarded the scene as one of display, as well as of exciting interest. Some had been frequent guests at his house; others had often received him at their own; and there they sat, in eager expectancy to see how he would behave, to criticise his bearing, to scan his looks through their “lorgnettes,” and note the accents in which he would speak. A few, indeed, of his more intimate friends denied themselves the treat such an exhibition promised; and it was plain to see how highly they estimated their own forbearance. Still, Frobisher and some of his set stood beneath the gallery, and watched the proceedings with interest.
Some routine business of an uninteresting nature over, the case of the King versus Roland Cashel was called, and the governor of the jail was ordered to produce the prisoner. A murmur of intense interest quickly ran through the crowded assembly, and as suddenly was subdued to a dead silence as the crowd, separating, permitted the passage of two armed policemen, after whom Cashel walked, followed by two others. Scarcely had he merged from the dense throng and taken his place in the dock, when a buzz of astonishment went round; for the prisoner, instead of being dressed decorously in black, as is customary, or at least in some costume bespeaking care and respect, was attired in the very suit he wore on the eventful night of the murder, the torn sleeves and blood-stained patches attracting every eye around him. He was paler and thinner than his wont; and if his countenance was more deeply thoughtful, there was nothing in it that evinced anxiety, or even expectancy. As he entered the dock, they who stood nearest to him remarked that a slight flush stole over his face, and something that seemed painful to his feelings appeared to work within him. A brief effort overcame this, and he raised his eyes and carried his looks around the court with the most perfect unconcern.
The prisoner was now arraigned, and the clerk proceeded to read over the indictment; after which came the solemn question, “How say you, prisoner, Guilty or Not Guilty?” Either not understanding the “quaere” as directly addressed to himself, or conceiving it to be some formality not requiring an answer, Cashel stood in a calm and respectful silence for some minutes, when the judge, in a mild voice, explained the meaning of the interrogation.
“Not Guilty, my Lord,” said Cashel, promptly; and though the words were few, and those almost of course on such an occasion, the feeling in the court was manifestly in concurrence with the speaker. The routine detail of calling over the jury panel involving the privilege of “challenge,” it became necessary to explain this to Cashel, whose ignorance of all legal forms being now so manifest, the judge asked who was counsel for the prisoner.
“He has not named any, my Lord.”