On the morning of Saturday, the 27th May, 1849, the court was crowded to a greater excess than usual, even in those days.  About the empty dock were the personal friends of Mr. Mitchel, those who agreed with him, and those who did not.  A little retired on either side sat John Martin, and John Kenyon—­in front were William H. Mitchel, brother of the prisoner and his only relative in court, T. Devin Reilly, Thomas F. Meagher, John B. Dillon, Michael Doheny, Richard O’Gorman, Martin O’Flaherty (Mr. Mitchel’s attorney), Charles O’Hara and others whom we have forgotten.

A little in advance, on the left of the dock, were the stalls reserved during the sham trial for the counsel for the defence.  As yet they were only occupied by the junior advocates, Sir Colman O’Loghlen and John O’Hagan.  The benches at the right of the dock, and nearer to the bench, reserved for the Attorney-General and his retainers, were vacant.  The Sheriff and his white stick occupied their box, and the galleries to the right and left were crowded with jurymen—­those who “had done their business,” and those who were eager for employment to do more.  The bench of the judges held two empty chairs.  And police officers and other mercenaries, dotted thickly over the court, “concluded and set off the arrangements.”

An old man, low of stature, and stooped, passed through a side door, and walked slowly and decrepidly into the benches of the prisoner’s counsel.  Whispers, and then applause from the galleries, were heard and passed by him unheeded.  Quietly and unostentatiously he moved to his seat—­the junior advocates, and all the Confederates in the body of the court, rising and bowing to him in silence.  It was the solitary Republican of the United Irish day, Robert Holmes, coming to discharge his last duty to the great Republican of a younger century.

The applause of the galleries was hushed by the crier’s voice—­“Silence! take off your hats”; and on the right stalked in the gaunt figure of James Henry Monahan.  Triumph, animosity and fear marked his night-bird face.  Even yet it was hoped the great opponent of his “government,” whom by rascality alone he could convict, would strike his colours, and sue for mercy.  Even yet it was feared that a rescue would be attempted.  How possible the former was, the reader may judge.  The latter was rendered impossible by the council of the Confederation, and the few who cherished the design in the council’s despite, had attempted an emeute the night previous, and were beaten and placed hors de combat.  As Monahan and his retainers entered, the red face of Lefroy oozed through the bench curtains, and followed by the pale Moore, “the court was seated.”

As yet the dock was empty, save that the jailor of Newgate and his deputy occupied each a corner.

There was a dead silence.

“Jailor, put forward John Mitchel,” said the official, whose duty is to make such orders.