When every witness on the part of the prosecutor had been examined, the judge addressed himself to her—“What defence have you to make?”
It was William spoke to Agnes! The sound was sweet; the voice was mild, was soft, compassionate, encouraging! It almost charmed her to a love of life!—not such a voice as when William last addressed her; when he left her undone and pregnant, vowing never to see or speak to her more.
She could have hung upon the present words for ever! She did not call to mind that this gentleness was the effect of practice, the art of his occupation: which, at times, is but a copy, by the unfeeling, from his benevolent brethren of the bench. In the present judge, tenderness was not designed for the consolation of the culprit, but for the approbation of the auditors.
There were no spectators, Agnes, by your side when last he parted from you: if there had, the awful William had been awed to marks of pity.
Stunned with the enchantment of that well-known tongue directed to her, she stood like one just petrified—all vital power seemed suspended.
Again he put the question, and with these additional sentences, tenderly and emphatically delivered—“Recollect yourself. Have you no witnesses? No proof in your behalf?”
A dead silence followed these questions.
He then mildly, but forcibly, added—“What have you to say?”
Here a flood of tears burst from her eyes, which she fixed earnestly upon him, as if pleading for mercy, while she faintly articulated,
“Nothing, my lord.”