John Potts, alias Peters, the accused man, stood alone in the prisoner’s dock.

He was a tall, gaunt, dark man, whose pallid face looked ghastly in contrast with his damp, lank, black hair, that seemed pasted to his cheeks by the thick perspiration, and with his black coat and pantaloons that hung loosely on his emaciated form.

The young duke thought he had never seen a man so much broken down in so short a time.

While the duke was looking at him, the poor wretch turned caught his eye and bowed.  And then he quickly grasped the front railing of the dock with both his hands, as if to keep himself from falling.

The young duke turned away his eyes.  The sight was too painful.  He looked around him over the densely packed crowd, in which he recognized many of his old friends and neighbors, a great number of his clansmen and nearly all the old servants of his family.

Although the month was October, and the weather cool in that northern climate, the atmosphere of such a packed crowd would have been unbearable but for the fact that the six tall windows that flanked the court-room on each side were let down from the top for ventilation.

The duke turned his attention to the Bench.

There seemed to be some pause in the proceedings.  The judges were sitting in perfect silence.  The prosecuting counsel were arranging papers and occasionally speaking to each other in low tones.

The duke turned to a gentleman, a stranger, who was sitting on his left, and inquired: 

“I have heard that the girl Cameron is not to be arraigned.  I have also heard that she is held as a witness for the crown.  Can you inform me whether it is so?”

“Yes, sir, it is so.  You perceive that she is not in the dock with the other prisoner.  She is in custody, however, in the sheriff’s room.  The prosecution cannot afford to arraign her, because they cannot do without her testimony,” answered the stranger.

A buzz of conversation passed like a breeze through the impatient crowd.

“Silence in the court!” called out the crier.

And all became as still as death.

Mr. Roy, assistant counsel for the crown, arose and read the indictment, charging the prisoner at the bar with the willful murder of Sir Lemuel Levison, at Castle Lone, on the twenty-first day of June, Anno Domini, so and so.  Without making any comment, the prosecutor sat down.

The Clerk of Arraigns then arose, and demanded of the accused—­

“Prisoner at the bar, are you guilty or not guilty of the crimes with which you stand indicted?”

Potts, who stood pale and trembling and clutching the rails in front of the dock, replied earnestly though informally: 

“Not guilty, upon my soul, my lords and gentlemen, before Heaven, and as I hope for salvation.”

And overpowered by fear, he sank down on the narrow bench at the back of the dock.