But presently the judge began to sum up. They were coming to something at last. But it was merely the thrice-told evidence once more. The judge blinked at his notes, and went at it again; the policeman with his whistle, and the other with his lantern, and the doctor, and the sergeant, and the rest. It was shorter this time, though. Josh Perrott turned and looked at the clock behind him, with the faces over it, peering from the gallery. But when he turned to face the judge again he had forgotten the time, and crowded trivialities were racing through the narrow gates of his brain once more. There was a cry for silence, and then a fresh voice spoke. 'Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?' 'We have.' The foreman was an agitated, colourless man, and he spoke in a low tone. 'Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty, or not guilty?' 'Guilty.' Yes, that was right; this was the real business. His head was clear and ready now. 'And is that the verdict of you all?' 'Yes.' Was that Hannah sobbing? A pale parson in his black gown came walking along by the bench, and stood like a tall ghost at the judge's side, his eyes raised and his hands clasped. The judge took a black thing from the seat beside him, and arranged it on his head. It was a sort of soft mortarboard, Josh noted curiously, with a large silk tassel hanging over one side, giving the judge, with his wig and his spectacles and his red gown, a horribly jaunty look. No brain could be clearer than Josh Perrott's now. 'Prisoner at the bar, have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed on you according to law?' 'No sir--I done it. On'y 'e was a worse man than me!' The Clerk of Arraigns sank into his place, and the judge spoke.