in that paralyzed court after Peter Blood had finished speaking. All
those who knew Lord Jeffreys regarded this as the lull before the
storm, and braced themselves for the explosion. But none came.

Slowly, faintly, the colour crept back into that ashen face. The
scarlet figure lost its rigidity, and bent forward. His lordship
began to speak. In a muted voice and briefly - much more briefly
than his wont on such occasions and in a manner entirely mechanical,
the manner of a man whose thoughts are elsewhere while his lips are
speaking - he delivered sentence of death in the prescribed form,
and without the least allusion to what Peter Blood had said. Having
delivered it, he sank back exhausted, his eyes half-closed, his brow
agleam with sweat.

The prisoners filed out.

Mr. Pollexfen - a Whig at heart despite the position of
Judge-Advocate which he occupied - was overheard by one of the
jurors to mutter in the ear of a brother counsel:

"On my soul, that swarthy rascal has given his lordship a scare.
It's a pity he must hang. For a man who can frighten Jeffreys
should go far."



CHAPTER IV

HUMAN MERCHANDISE