“If that sentence entailed infamy on any one, Count d’Ahlefeld, it was not on me.”
The old man half rose as he spoke these words with great emphasis.
The president waved his hand.
“Sit down. Do not insult, in the presence of the court, the judges who condemned you, and the king who surrendered you to those judges. Recollect that his Majesty deigned to grant you your life, and confine yourself to defending it.”
Schumacker’s only answer was a shrug of the shoulders.
“Have you,” asked the president, “anything to say in regard to the charges preferred against you?”
Seeing that Schumacker was silent, the president repeated his question.
“Are you speaking to me?” said the ex-chancellor. “I supposed, noble Count d’Ahlefeld, that you were speaking to yourself. Of what crime do you accuse me? Did I ever give a Judas kiss to a friend? Have I imprisoned, condemned, and dishonored a benefactor,—robbed him to whom I owed everything? In truth, my lord chancellor, I know not why I am brought here. Doubtless it is to judge of your skill in lopping off innocent heads. Indeed, I shall not be sorry to see whether you find it as easy to ruin me as to ruin the kingdom, and whether a single comma will be a sufficient pretext for my death, as one letter of the alphabet was enough for you to bring on a war with Sweden.”[2]
He had scarcely uttered this bitter jest, when the man seated at the table to the left of the bench arose.
“My lord president,” said he, bowing low, “my lord judges, I move that John Schumacker be forbidden to speak, if he continue to insult his Grace, the president of this worshipful court.”