This body now files into its place.
“Gentlemen of the grand jury, have you any bills of indictment to present to the court?” the crier asks, and is rewarded with a considerable parcel.
The clerk scrutinizes these, the court does likewise, and then they come into the hands of the prosecuting officer, who briskly takes one from the top and calls a name:
“Christof Nielsen!”
Meanwhile, in seeming confusion, the grand jury is discharged and the petit jury called, and sworn.
“You, and each of you, do swear that you will well and truly try, and a true deliverance make, between the Commonwealth and the prisoner at the bar, whom you will have in charge, and a true verdict render, according to the evidence, so help you God.”
Again the crier calls:
“Put Christof Nielsen in the dock!”
At the name a haggard face emerges from the herd in the dock. The head is hooped about with blood-stained bandages—the face is bruised and swollen—one arm hangs limp and helpless at his side—with the other he steadies himself at the spiked railing as he obeys the court officer’s gesture to stand.
He no longer wears the wolfskin tunic—but a worn “sack-coat” too small for him. His neck and the circlet of wolf’s teeth are concealed by the collar of a flannel shirt. Trousers are on his legs instead of the skins and cross-garterings, and on his feet, where once were the great shoes of furred wolfskin, are hard shoes “made in America,” which torture his feet. His hair has lost its sunlustre and is cut short. In his hand he carries a small cloth cap.