“Sleep!” cried I; “do you ever sleep?”
He stared a little, but I added with pretended dryness, “Do any of you that live down there in that prosecutor’s den ever sleep in your beds? I should have imagined that, had you even attempted it, the anticipating ghost of Mr. Hastings would have appeared to you in the dead of the night, and have drawn your curtains, and glared ghastly in your eyes. I do heartily wish Mr. Tickell would send You that ‘Anticipation’ at once!”
This idea furnished us with sundry images, till, looking down upon Mr. Hastings, with an air a little moved, he said, “I am afraid the most insulting thing we do by him is coming up hither to show ourselves so easy and disengaged, and to enter into conversation with the ladies.”
“But I hope,” cried I, alarmed, “he does not see that.”
“Why your caps,” cried he, “are much in your favour for concealment; they are excellent screens to all but the first row!”
I saw him, however, again look at the poor, and, I sincerely believe, much-injured prisoner, and as I saw also he still bore With my open opposition, I could not but again seize a favourable moment for being more serious With him.
“Ah, Mr. Windham,” I cried, “I have not forgot what dropped from you on the first day of this trial.”
He looked a little surprised. “You,” I continued, “probably have no remembrance of it, for you have been living ever since down there; but I was more touched with what you said then, than with all I have since heard from all the others, and probably than with all I shall hear even from you again when you mount the rostrum.”
“You conclude,” cried he, looking very sharp, “I shall then be better steeled against that fatal candour?”
“In fact,” cried I, “Mr. Windham, I do really believe your steeling to he factitious; notwithstanding you took pains to assure me your candour was but the deeper malice; and yet I will own, when once I have heard your speech, I have little expectation of ever having the honour of conversing with you again.”