"I was never with that army. No witness has sworn to that, and I
dare swear that no witness will. I never was attracted to the late
rebellion. I regarded the adventure as a wicked madness. I take
leave to ask your lordship" (his brogue became more marked than ever)
"what should I, who was born and bred a papist, be doing in the army
of the Protestant Champion?"

"A papist thou?" The judge gloomed on him a moment. "Art more like
a snivelling, canting Jack Presbyter. I tell you, man, I can smell
a Presbyterian forty miles."

"Then I'll take leave to marvel that with so keen a nose your
lordship can't smell a papist at four paces."

There was a ripple of laughter in the galleries, instantly quelled
by the fierce glare of the Judge and the voice of the crier.

Lord Jeffreys leaned farther forward upon his desk. He raised that
delicate white hand, still clutching its handkerchief, and sprouting
from a froth of lace.

"We'll leave your religion out of account for the moment, friend,"
said he. "But mark what I say to you." With a minatory forefinger
he beat the time of his words. "Know, friend, that there is no
religion a man can pretend to can give a countenance to lying. Thou
hast a precious immortal soul, and there is nothing in the world
equal to it in value. Consider that the great God of Heaven and
Earth, before Whose tribunal thou and we and all persons are to
stand at the last day, will take vengeance on thee for every
falsehood, and justly strike thee into eternal flames, make thee