was harsh as a file. He writhed as he spoke, and for an instant
his features were distorted. A delicate dead-white hand, on which
the veins showed blue, brought forth a handkerchief with which he
dabbed his lips and then his brow. Observing him with his
physician's eye, Peter Blood judged him a prey to the pain of the
disease that was destroying him. "So you shall. But after the
admission made, what defence remains?"

"You shall judge, my lord."

"That is the purpose for which I sit here."

"And so shall you, gentlemen." Blood looked from judge to jury.
The latter shifted uncomfortably under the confident flash of his
blue eyes. Lord Jeffreys's bullying charge had whipped the spirit
out of them. Had they, themselves, been prisoners accused of
treason, he could not have arraigned them more ferociously.

Peter Blood stood boldly forward, erect, self-possessed, and
saturnine. He was freshly shaven, and his periwig, if out of curl,
was at least carefully combed and dressed.

"Captain Hobart has testified to what he knows - that he found me
at Oglethorpe's Farm on the Monday morning after the battle at
Weston. But he has not told you what I did there."

Again the Judge broke in. "Why, what should you have been doing
there in the company of rebels, two of whom - Lord Gildoy and your
fellow there - have already admitted their guilt?"