There was also Colonel Turton; with Colin Granton—who had never left me since daylight this morning—but they all held back when they saw rise and come forward, as if with the intention of being sworn, your father.
Have no fear my love, for his health. I watched him closely all this day. He bore it well—it will have no ill result I feel sure. From my observation of him, I should say that a great and salutary change had come over him, both body and mind, and that he is as likely to enjoy a green old age as any one I know.
When he spoke, his voice was as steady and clear as before his accident it used to be in the pulpit.
“My lords and gentlemen, I was subpoenaed to this trial. Not being called upon to give evidence, I wish to make a statement upon oath.”
There must have been a “sensation in the court,” as newspapers say, for I saw Granton look anxiously at me. But I had no fears. Your father, whatever he had to say, was sure to speak the truth, not a syllable more or less, and the truth was all I wanted.
The judge here interfered, observing that there being no trial, he could receive no legal evidence against the prisoner.
“Nor have I any such evidence to give: I wish only for justice. My lord, may I speak?”
Assent was given.
Your father's words were brief and formal; but you will imagine how they fell on one ear at least.
“My name is William Henry Johnston, clerk, of Rockmount, Surrey. Henry Johnston, who—died—on the night of November 19th, 1836, was my only son. I know the prisoner at the bar. I knew him for some time before he was aware whose father I was, or I had any suspicion that my son came to his death in any other way than by accident.”