Waymark had been drawn to the court in spite of himself. Strangely quiet hitherto, a fear fell upon him the night before the trial. From an early hour in the morning he walked about the streets, circling ever nearer to the hateful place. All at once he found himself facing Mr. Woodstock. The old man's face was darkly anxious, and he could not change its expression quickly enough.
"Are you going in?" he said sharply.
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"Then I shall not," said Waymark. "I'll go to your place, and wait there."
But when Abraham, whose eyes had not moved from the prisoner throughout the proceedings, rose at length to leave, a step or two brought him to a man who was leaning against the wall, powerless from conflicting excitement, and deadly pale. It was Waymark. Mr. Woodstock took him by the arm and led him out.
"Why couldn't you keep away?" the old man exclaimed hoarsely, and with more of age in his voice than any one had ever yet heard in it.
Waymark shook himself free, and laughed as one laughs under torment.