His cheerful voice rang through the court. Ronnie saw him look down to the place where Sir John was sitting, and smile, such a smile of encouragement and sympathy as a defending lawyer might give to his condemned client; coming from the condemned to the advocate, it was unique.
The judge was sitting stiffly erect. He was a man of seventy, thin and furrowed of face. Over his wig lay a square of black silk, a corner drooped to his forehead.
"Prisoner at the bar, the jury have found the only verdict which it was possible for them to return after hearing the evidence." He stopped here, and Ronnie expected to hear the usual admonition which precedes the formal sentence, but the judge went on to the performance of his dread duty. "The sentence of this court is, and this court doth ordain, that you be taken from the place whence you came, and from thence to a place of execution, and there you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and your body shall afterwards be buried within the precincts of the prison in which you were last confined. And may God have mercy upon your soul."
Ambrose listened, his lips moving. He was repeating to himself word by word the sentence of the law. He had the appearance of a man who was intensely interested.
A warder touched his arm and awoke him from his absorption. He started, smiled apologetically, and, turning, walked down the stairs and out of sight.
"Good-bye, my friend—I shall see you once again," said Ronnie.
He had decided to leave nothing undone that would authorize his presence at the execution.
Going into the hall to see the procession of the judge with his halberdiers and his trumpet men, he saw Sir John passing and his eyes were red. Ronnie was amused.
"Are you traveling back to town tonight, Ronnie?"
"No, Sir John. I leave in the morning."