A minute later the clerk of the assizes came into the court. Then a great hush fell upon all present. From a door at the back of the hall came Mr. Justice Bolitho and took his seat. Immediately all eyes were turned towards him.
"Handsome, isn't he?"
"Yes; a striking figure of a man."
"Isn't it strange though? Only a year or two ago he and Stepaside fought for the Brunford seat. They ran neck and neck too, and he got in. Of course that was before he was made a judge. Do you know what Stepaside said when the figures were announced? He said that he and Bolitho would meet again, and always to fight; and now it's come to this!"
"Ay; and he appeared against him years ago, when he was up for the riot. Then he only got him sent to gaol for six months, and now it seems as though he'll put on the black cap and condemn him to be hanged. My word, though, I shouldn't like to be a judge!"
Judge Bolitho was indeed a striking figure as he sat there in his judicial robes and heavy wig. His features were large and commanding. His eyes had the look of authority. His mouth was set and stern. He looked every inch of what he was, a representative of the dignity of the law, a man set apart to do justice—a cultured, able man, too, with fine, almost classical features, even although they were somewhat heavy. Not a cruel man—at least he did not appear so; indeed, he was well known as one who could tell a good story and pass a timely joke. A popular man, too, with those of his own order—one who by ability and worth had risen to his present exalted position.
One of the ushers shouted "Silence" as he sat down; but there was no need for him to speak. The place was as still as death. Everyone waited for what should happen next. Then, if possible, the atmosphere became more than ever charged with the spirit of the day's trial. Distant footsteps were heard, and then, accompanied on either side by a policeman, came Paul Stepaside.
Paul had scarcely slept a wink that night; not that he feared the trial—that seemed to be in the background of his life now. Everything else was swallowed up in the interview which he had had with Mary Bolitho. Throughout the long night he had been fighting a great battle. What should he do? If he were to tell the whole truth—— But he would not think of it. Still, all the old questions recurred to him again with weary reiteration, the old battle had to be fought and re-fought. Love for his mother, love for the woman who was to him a thousand times more than his mother yet in a different way, struggling for ascendancy. What should he do? What should he do?
The chaplain came to him again that morning—as he had done once or twice before—to offer him his ministrations, but Paul was still as hard as adamant. The chaplain was an earnest, good man, narrow in his faith, but deeply in earnest. He believed in Paul's guilt, and would have given a great deal to have brought him to a state of repentance.
"If you'd only accept the consolations, the help of religion!" he had said to him.