drowned again in that seething cauldron; the rays of the guttering
candles (for the murder-trial had lasted far into the evening) that
loomed through it and wore a sickly halo; the red robes and red face
of my lord judge opposite that stared through it and outshone the
candles; the black crowd around, seen mistily; the voice of the usher
calling "Silence!"; the shuffling of the jurymen's feet; the pallor
on their faces as I leant forward and tried to read the verdict on
them; the very smell of the place, compounded of fog, gaol-fever, the
close air, and the dinners eaten earlier in the day by the crowd--all
this strikes home upon me as sharply as it then did, after the numb
apathy of waiting.

As the jury huddled into their places I stole a look at my counsel.
He paused for a moment from his task of trimming a quill, shot a
quick glance at the foreman's face, and then went on cutting as
coolly as ever.

"Gentlemen of the jury"--it was the judge's voice--"are you agreed
upon your verdict?"

"We are."

"Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?"

"_Not guilty_."

It must have been full a minute, as I leant back clutching the rail
in front of me, before I saw anything but the bleared eyes of the
candles, or heard anything but a hoarse murmur from the crowd.
But as soon as the court ceased to heave, and I could stare about me,