The President proceeded to read the charge-sheet:—­

“The accused, No. , Sergeant John Stokes, 2nd Battalion Downshire Regiment, is charged with Misbehaving before the enemy in such a manner as to show cowardice, in that he at , on October 3rd, 1914, when on patrol, and when under the enemy’s fire, did run away.”

All this time the prisoner had been studying the wall, his eyes travelling from the right to the left of the frieze, and then from the left to the right again.  It was noticeable that his lips moved slightly at each stage of this laborious visual journey.  “Forty-seven.”  “Forty-nine.”  “Forty-eight.”  Stokes was immensely interested in that compelling frieze.  He counted and recounted the number of figures in the Greek fret with painful iteration.  Apparently he was satisfied at last, and then his eyes began to study the inkstand in front of the President.  The President seemed an enormous distance away, but the inkstand very near and very large, and he found himself wondering why it was round, why it wasn’t square, or hexagonal, or elliptic.  Then he speculated whether the ink was blue or black, or red, and why people never used green or yellow.  His brain had gone through all the colours of the spectrum when a pull at his sleeve by the escort attracted his attention.  Apparently the Colonel was saying something to him.

“Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”

The prisoner stared, but said nothing.  The escort again pulled his sleeve as the Colonel repeated the question.

Stokes cleared his throat, and looking his interlocutor straight in the face, said, “Guilty, sir.”  The members of the court looked at each other, the Colonel whispered to the Judge-Advocate, the Judge-Advocate to the Prosecutor.  The Judge-Advocate turned to the prisoner, “Do you realise,” he asked, not unkindly, “that if you plead ‘Guilty’ you will not be able to call any evidence as to extenuating circumstances?” The prisoner pondered for a moment; it seemed to him that the Judge-Advocate’s voice was almost persuasive.

“Well, I’ll say ‘not guilty,’ sir.”

He now saw the President quite close to him; that monstrous inkstand had diminished to its natural size.  Nothing was to be heard beyond the hissing of the rain but the scratching of the Judge-Advocate’s quill, as he slowly dictated to himself the words “The—­prisoner—­pleads—­’not guilty.’” But why they had asked him a question which could only admit of one answer and then persuaded him to give the wrong one, was a thing that both puzzled and distressed John Stokes.  Why all this solemn ritual, he speculated painfully; he was surely as good as dead already.  He found himself wondering whether the sentence of the Court would be carried out in the presence of only the firing party, or whether the whole of his battalion would be paraded.  And he fell to wondering whether he would be reported in the casualty lists as “killed in action,” or would it be “missing”?  And would they send his wife his identity-disc, as they did with those who had fallen honourably on the field?  All these questions both interested and perplexed him, but the proceedings of the Court he regarded little, or not at all.