Mr Crane the junior counsel defending me, cross-examined him at some length, but resumed his seat without being able to shake his testimony.
The waiter who had attended to me at the Charing Cross Hotel, and two of my own servants were called, but their evidence was immaterial and uninteresting.
I felt a strange morbid yielding to a superstitious feeling that I could not shake off, and sat as one in a dream, until the Court rose and I was sent back to my cell.
Chapter Thirty.
The Eleventh Hour.
Next morning my trial was resumed.
There was the same array of counsel; the same crowd of curious onlookers lounging on the benches like carrion crows around a carcase; the same strange, half-visionary procession of judges, lawyers and witnesses, who passed and repassed before me, sometimes ludicrous, but generally gloomy and depressing.
The jury looked pale and weary. They had been locked up during the night, and now several of them were yawning. None gave indication that they felt the responsibility of the sentence they had to pronounce.