“Oyer, oyer, all ye who have grievances–” cried the garrulous Rochester in the husky tones of the crier, who most generally assumes that he is the whole court and oftentimes should be.
“Mistress Nell,” commanded the royal judge, summoning Nell to the bar, “thou shalt be counsel for the prisoner; Adair’s life hangs upon thy skill to outwit the law.”
“Or bribe the judge, Sire?” suggested Nell, demurely.
“Not with thy traitor lips,” retorted Charles, with the injured dignity of a petty justice about to commit a flash of true wit for contempt of court.
“Traitor lips?” cried Nell, sadly. “By my troth, I never kissed Adair. I confess, I tried, your Majesty; but I could not.”
“Have a care,” replied the King, in a tone which indicated that the fires of suspicion still smouldered in his breast; “I am growing jealous.”
Nell fell upon one knee and stretched forth her arms suppliantly.
“Adair is in such a tight place, Sire, he can scarcely breathe,” she pleaded, with the zeal of a barrister hard-working for his first fee in her voice, “much less speak for himself. Mercy!”
“We will have justice; not mercy,” replied the court, with a sly wink at Rochester. “Guilty or not guilty, wench?”
“Not guilty, Sire! Did you ever see the man who was?”