“The mate walked up to the dock, stopped, and fixed his eyes intently on the young Spaniard. I stared breathlessly at him also. He grows pale as death—his lip quivers—the large drops of sweat once more burst from his brow. I grew sick, sick.
“Yes, your honour,” said the mate.
“Yes—ah!” said the devil’s limb, chuckling—“we are getting on the trail at last. Can you swear to more than one?”
“Yes, your honour.”
“Yes!” again responded the sans wig. “How many?”
The man counted them off. “Fifteen, sir. That young fellow there is the man who cut Captain Spurtel’s throat, after violating his wife before his eyes.”
“God forgive me, is it possible?” gasped Thomas Cringle.
“There’s a monster in human form for you, gentlemen,” continued devil’s limb. “Go on, Mr Rumbletithump.”
“That other man next him hung me up by the heels, and seared me on the bare”—Here honest job had just time to divert the current of his speech into a loud “whew.”
“Seared you on the whew!” quoth the facetious lawyer, determined to have his jest, even in the face of forty-three of his fellow creatures trembling on the brink of eternity. “Explain, sir, tell the court where you were seared, and how you were seared, and all about your being seared.”