The streets were very full, many people having come out to see the entry of the judges. Groups stood at the corners, gravely discussing the impending trial, men and women wandered aimlessly up and down waiting—waiting, they knew not for what. Everywhere was a spirit of restlessness, of suspense, and over all hung the great hush of expectation. Men spake for the most part in subdued voices, nowhere sounded the customary cries and cheerful noises of the streets. There were few outward tokens of grief; sorrow and anxiety had so long oppressed the people they had grown accustomed to their burden. To-night, however, the thought of the dark morrow looming threateningly before their sight had driven them out into the streets to wander restlessly to and fro seeking to escape from that fear which would not be shaken off, but followed ever behind them, whispering in the ear its dread suggestions. The spirit of that terrible tribunal moved on before; already the shadow of its presence darkened their hearts. As they waited in the East street, acquaintances of Prudence passed the girls, but none stopped to speak. Despite their kindness of heart the Lanes were not popular with their fellow-townsmen, who, perhaps naturally, felt suspicious of this prosperous Tory merchant. Presently Robert Wilcox approached and encouraged by a smile from Cicely he joined them, and the three strolled up and down the street together. A sense of loneliness oppressed Cicely as she watched the covert glances and whispers of the lovers. She tried to forget her own sorrows, tried not to listen to the dismal conversations of the passers by, but in vain. She could not escape from her thoughts, could not dismiss from her mind that dreaded verdict, heard on the lips, written on the faces of all around her, "There is no hope." But at length a roll of kettle-drums announced the approach of the judges; and as the procession turned into East street, everyone paused instinctively to watch it pass. Dragoons, halberdiers, and carriages all went slowly past, and last of all came the great coach of the Chief Justice, Lord Jeffreys himself reclining carelessly on his cushions within. Cicely leaned forward eagerly to gaze at the man of whom she had heard so much, and gave an exclamation of astonishment when her eyes rested on his face. Where was the brutal, the ferocious judge of whom so many terrible rumours had reached her ears? Where was that monster of cruelty at whose name even the rough soldiers trembled? Surely not here. This man so wonderfully handsome, this man with the lofty brow, the noble expression, the sad, weary eyes, this could not be the terrible Jeffreys. Yet if it were indeed he, if it were—— Why surely then—— Her heart leaped high with hope. Surely then these stories must be false, base calumnies of the rebels even such as those which were told of Duke Monmouth by the supporters of the King.