Shame for unmerited reproach and unavailing sorrow for a lost youth—a blighted, it might be, a long life taken away, and perhaps by a shameful death—were some of the deep, the bitter, and stinging emotions felt on this day by poor Quentin Kennedy.
While that court-martial lasted he lived a lifetime in every hour of it!
His declaration or defence, read by Warriston, was simply a recapitulation of some of the leading features of our narrative, which he had no means of substantiating; the mass of evidence against him was summed up, but was too strong in some points to be easily disposed of. His youth and inexperience were dwelt upon, but it seemed without much avail. Neither did the warm manner in which Major Middleton, Buckle, Sergeant-major Calder and others, bore testimony to his spotless character, seem to find much weight. To satisfy the Spaniards, a victim was wanted, and here was one ready made to hand.
It was now nearly four o'clock, and the Court was about to be cleared for the consideration of the opinion and sentence, when the sharp and well-known twang of a French cavalry trumpet rang in the court before the palace, and the tramping of horses was heard.
"Thank God!" muttered Askerne (who had frequently consulted his watch) as he exchanged a rapid glance with Monkton; "that muleteer has served us well!"
At that moment of terrible expectation an officer of the 7th Hussars entered hastily, and presented a note to the judge advocate.
"What interruption is this, Captain Conyers?" asked Colonel Grant, sternly.
"An officer from the French lines, come in under a flag of truce, requests to be examined by the Court for the defence," replied Conyers.
Every face present expressed extreme astonishment.
"What is his name?" asked the president.