Inside the room was a table covered with green baize, on which were methodically arranged in extended order a Bible, an inkstand, a sheaf of paper, and a copy of the Manual of Military Law.  Behind the table were seven chairs, and to the right and left of them stood two others.  The seven chairs were for the members of the court; the chair on the extreme right was for the “prisoner’s friend,” that on the left awaited the Judge-Advocate.  About five yards in front of the table, in the centre of an empty space, stood two more chairs turned towards it.  Otherwise the room was as bare as a guard-room.  And this austere meagreness gave it a certain dignity of its own as of a place where nothing was allowed to distract the mind from the serious business in hand.  At the door stood an orderly with a red armlet bearing the imprint of the letters “M.P.” in black.

“I have read the summary pretty carefully,” the Judge-Advocate was saying, “and it seems to me a clear case.  The charge is fully made out.  And yet the curious thing is, the fellow has an excellent record, I believe.”

“That proves nothing,” said the Colonel; “I’ve had a fellow in my battalion found sleeping at his post on sentry-go, a fellow I could have sworn by.  And you know what the punishment for that is.  It’s these night attacks; the men must not sleep by night and some of them cannot sleep by day, and there are limits to human nature.  We’ve no reserves to speak of as yet, and the men are only relieved once in three weeks.  Their feet are always wet, and their circulation goes all wrong.  It’s the puttees perhaps.  And if your circulation goes wrong you can’t sleep when you want to, till at last you sleep when you don’t want to.  Or else your nerves go wrong.  I’ve seen a man jump like a rabbit when I’ve come up behind him.”

“Yes,” mused the Judge-Advocate, “I know.  But hard cases make bad law.”

“Yes, and bad law makes hard cases.  Between you and me, our military law is a bit prehistoric.  You’re a lawyer and know more about it than I do.  But isn’t there something for civilians called a First Offenders Act?  Bind ’em over to come up for judgment if called on—­that kind of thing.  Gives a man another chance.  Why not the soldier too?”

“Yes,” replied the Judge-Advocate, “there is.  I believe the War Office have been talking about adopting it for years.  But this is not the time of day to make changes of that kind.  Everybody’s worked off his head.”

Eight officers had entered the room at intervals, the subalterns a little ahead of their seniors in point of time, as is the first duty of a subaltern whether on parade or at a “general,” and, having saluted the President in the window, they stood conversing in low tones.