“Where?” said the counsel, like inexorable fate.
“I will save the gentlewoman from replying to that question, sir;” and a gentleman with long brown hair, in a rich white and gold uniform, rose from among the spectators. “Perhaps I may be allowed to answer for her, when I say that it was at Portchester Castle, at five in the morning, that she saw Peregrine Oakshott slain by my hand, and thrown into the vault.”
There was a moment of breathless amazement in the court, and the judge was the first to speak. “Very extraordinary, sir! What is your name?”
“Charles Archfield,” said the clear resolute voice.
Then came a general movement and sensation, and Anne, still holding fast to the support, saw the newcomer start forward with a cry, “My father!” and with two or three bounds reach the side of Sir Philip, who had sunk back in his seat for a moment, but recovered himself as he felt his son’s arm round him.
There was a general buzz, and a cry of order, and in the silence thus produced the judge addressed the witness:—
“Is what this gentleman says the truth?”
And on Anne’s reply, “Yes, my Lord,” spoken with the clear ring of anguish, the judge added—
“Was the prisoner present?”
“No, my Lord; he had nothing to do with it.”