It must be a dream, he felt. That could not be Sage seated there by the sturdy, portly, grey-haired man, her uncle. Even old Michael Ross seemed to be terribly changed, making it impossible that the little, thin, withered man seated behind Churchwarden Portlock could be the quick, brisk tradesman of the past. "Was it all true?" Luke kept asking himself, "or was it, after all, but a dream?" Cyril Mallow's was the first case to be taken that morning, and the preliminaries were soon settled; but all the while the dreaminess of the scene seemed to Luke to be on the increase. He tried to bring his thoughts back from the past, but it was impossible; and when Mr Swift the solicitor who had instructed him spoke, the words seemed to be a confused murmur from far away. Then the clerk of arraigns called the prisoner's name, and as Cyril Mallow was placed at the bar, and Luke gazed at the face that had grown coarse and common-looking in the past twelve years, the dreaminess increased still more. Luke was conscious of rising to bow to the court and say, "I am for the prosecution, my lord"; and heard the deep, rolling, sonorous voice of Mr Serjeant Towle reply, "I am for the defence, my lord"; and then Luke's eyes rested upon Sage, who for the first time recognised him, and was now leaning forward, looking at him with wild and starting eyes that seemed to implore him to spare her husband, for the sake of their childhood's days; and her look fascinated him so that he could not tear his gaze away. It must be a dream, or else he was ill, for there was now a strange singing in his ears, as well as the misty appearance before his eyes, through which he could see nothing but Sage Portlock, as his heart persisted in calling her still. "Was he to go on?" he asked himself, "to go wading on through this terrible nightmare, planting sting after sting in that tender breast, or should he give it up at once?" He wanted to--he strove to speak, and say, "My lord, I give up this prosecution," but his lips would not utter the words. For he was in a nightmare-like dream, and no longer a free agent. And yet his nerves were so overstrung that he was acutely conscious of the slightest sound in the court, as he rose now, the observed of all present. He heard the soft, subdued rustle made by people settling in their places for the long trial; the catching, hysterical sigh uttered by the prisoner's wife; and a quick, faint cough, or clearing of the throat, as the prisoner leaned against the dock, and sought to get rid of an unpleasant, nervous contraction of the throat.