'Master Terence!' Phil gasped, with thick effort, 'I could not help your being taken--though it was--it was my fault. They pushed the heap--of rope--off of my head. They shall get ne'er a word out of me--ne'er a one--though they flay me to the bone. Master Terence--master--will ye forgive----'
Phil staggered and slid from the grasp of his fellow prisoner to the floor, and lay there on his face.
'One of your victims appears to be insensible,' Mr. Curran remarked shortly.
''Deed it seems so,' acquiesced Lord Carleton, peering through his glasses. 'A very indecent exhibition. Does there chance to be e'er a doctor in the coort?'
One of the jurymen was an apothecary. He left the box and turned the prostrate figure over.
'Can ye speak with assurance of the man's state?' demanded the judge.
'He is near his end, my lord,' answered the juryman.
'Is he now--are ye sure?' What with the heat, and what with the untoward incident, my Lord Carleton was puzzled. No help could he get from Lord Kilwarden, who leaned with his elbow on the desk and his eyes shaded by his hand.
'Open the windy!' puffed the judge. 'For the Lord's sake let's have a little air; maybe he's only sick. Can ye rouse him to hear his judgment?'
The apothecary laid a palm upon his patient's heart.