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.

Meanwhile the Prosecutor was unfolding the charge in a clear, even
voice, neither extenuating nor setting down aught in malice. In a