This produced a quick protest from the Attorney-General, who, as he declared, was not to be dictated to by his learned friend as to the manner in which he should conduct his case.
But again Sir Charles Russell rose, and again in the same vibrating voice announced his determination as before.
There was a pause for a moment’s whispered interchange of opinion among the judges on the Bench, and then Mr. Justice Hannen, in a voice that was never loud but which even in its lowest tones could always command authority, conveyed to the Attorney-General the intimation that, without any intention of dictating to him the course he should take, they were all clearly of opinion that Mr. Pigott ought to be put into the box without delay.
Sir Richard Webster yielded, and Mr. Pigott was called; and then, when the examination-in-chief was complete, began that cross-examination by Sir Charles Russell which stands out as the main dramatic episode in that great historic trial.
The advocate was at his best, and when Sir Charles Russell was at his best his time knew no equal. As question followed question in quick pursuit, the unhappy witness seemed to crumble away beneath his hand.
But the hour of adjournment came before the wretched man, driven from point to point, had finally succumbed, and, as subsequent events proved, the brilliant cross-examination of Sir Charles Russell was destined to have no close.
On the next morning, when Pigott was again called, there was no answer; and after a sufficient pause to give time for his arrival, Sir Charles rose and applied for a warrant for his arrest.
I went with Mr. Parnell and Sir George Lewis to Bow Street to obtain from the magistrate the issue of the warrant, and I remember, as a comic incident in our brief passage along the Strand, that a little street urchin vending newspapers, who, with the sharpness of the London boy, was already well informed of what had taken place, danced in front of the Irish statesman and bowing with mock gravity said, “Charlie, you’ve done it nice.”
At that time one of my brothers was staying in Madrid, and on the following night I was awakened about two o’clock by the arrival of a telegram which said: “A man whom I am sure is Pigott has committed suicide here in the hotel.”
And so ended this extraordinary episode which at one time had threatened to drive from public life one of the most remarkable men of his time. That he was finally hounded from the leadership of his party speaks, I think, but little for the reputation of those of his comrades who joined in the attack; and less still—as I have always felt—for Mr. Gladstone, whose part in that unworthy transaction was not altogether consistent with the high courage that he usually exhibited in public affairs.