Then turning to Ralph,—­

“But why?”

“To save from forfeiture my lands, sheep, goods, and chattels, and those of my mother and brother, falsely stated to be mine.”

Justice Millet gave an eager glance at Justice Hide.

“It is the law,” said the latter, apparently replying to an unuttered question.  “The estate of an offender cannot be seized to the King’s use before conviction.  My Lord Coke is very clear on that point.  It is the law; we must yield to it.”

“God forefend else!” replied Justice Millet in his meekest tone.

“Ralph Ray,” continued the judge, “let us be sure that you know what you do.  If you stand mute a terrible punishment awaits you.”

Justice Millet interposed,—­

“I repeat that the prisoner must plead.  In the ancient law of peine forte et dure an exception is expressly made of all cases of regicide.”

“The indictment does not specify regicide as the prisoner’s treason.”

Justice Millet hid his discomfiture in an ostentatious perusal of a copy of the indictment.

“But do not deceive yourself,” continued the judge, turning again towards the prisoner.  “Do you know the penalty of standing mute?  Do you know that to save your estates to your family by refusing to plead, you must suffer a terrible death,—­a death without judgment, a death too shocking perhaps for so much as bare contemplation?  Do you know this?”

The dense throng in the court seemed not to breathe at that awful moment.  Every one waited for the reply.  It came slowly and deliberately,—­

“I know it.”

The paper dropped from the judge’s hand, and fluttered to the floor.  In the court there was a half-uttered murmur of amazement.  A man stood there to surrender his life, with all that was near and dear to it.  Not dogged, trapped, made desperate by fate, but cheerfully and of his own free will.

Wonder and awe fell on that firmament of faces.  Brave fellows there found the heart swell and the pulse beat quick as they saw that men—­ plain, rude men, Englishmen, kinsmen—­might still do nobly.  Cowards shrank closer together.

And, in the midst of all, the man who stood to die wore the serenest look to be seen there.  Not an eye but was upturned to his placid face.

The judge’s voice broke the silence,—­

“And was it with this knowledge and this view that you surrendered?”

Ralph folded his arms across his breast and bowed.

The silence could be borne no longer.  The murmurs of the spectators broke into a wild tumult of cheers, like the tossing of many waters; like the roar and lash of mighty winds that rise and swell, then ebb and surge again.

The usher of the court had not yet suppressed the applause, when it was observed that a disturbance of another kind had arisen near the door.  A young woman with a baby in her arms was crushing her way in past the javelin man stationed there, and was craning her neck to catch sight of the prisoner above the dense throng that occupied every inch of the floor.