"Let him be sent for," replied the Chancellor.
During the interval in the proceedings men talked freely in low voices; it was marked that an air of gloom and despondency sat upon the faces of the friends of the Jefferays.
Suddenly there was a rustling movement in the gangway of the Court, and a dead silence ensued as William Jefferay was perceived in the hands of the officers of the Court, who were leading him towards the dock.
"Place them side by side," commanded the Chancellor.
William entered the dock and stood beside his brother. The brothers looked into each other's face with a quiet air, in which sadness and love bore equal part; they clasped hands and so faced the Court.
Even in that august presence a murmur of admiration and sympathy, closely mingled, ran through the assembly.
There was no further need of words or explanation, it was evident to all why the first trial had miscarried, how the Pursuivant had made his great mistake.
"It is enough, let Mr. William Jefferay step down," said the President.
Yes, it was enough, there remained now but the dread sentence to be pronounced.
The judges briefly consulted; then the Chancellor arose and, amid an ominous silence, said—