committed that crime; but the charge against me is that I am a criminal
fool, which I am not. And my witnesses will show you, gentlemen of the
Jury, that the evidence brought against me is a mass of lies of the
silliest concoction. That is, they will show it you if you are sensible
men and understand your position as jurymen, which I almost fear you do
not. Well, it will not be the first time that the judge has usurped the
function of the jury, and I would go to prison cheerfully enough if I
could hope it would be the last.

[_He pauses as if to listen. Confused noises and the sound of the_
"_Marseillaise_" _a long way off_. (_Aside_: What is it, I wonder?--No;
it's nothing.)

_J. N_. Prisoner, what is the matter with you? You seem to be
intoxicated; and indeed I hope you are, for nothing else could excuse the
brutality of your language.

_J. F_. Oh, don't put yourself out, my lord. You've got the whip-hand
of me, you know. I thought I heard an echo; that's all. Well, I will
say no more, but call the Archbishop of Canterbury.

[_Enter the_ ARCHBISHOP, _who is received with much reverence and
attention. He is sworn_.

_J. F_. Your Grace, were you present at the meeting at Beadon Road where
I was arrested?

_Arch_. Yes--yes, I _was_ there. Strange to say, it was on a Sunday
morning. I needed some little refreshment from the toils of
ecclesiastical office. So I took a cab, I admit under the pretext of