The hush which followed was broken by a poor actor among the jury. He had been out of an engagement for two years, and he had left his home that morning with his wife sitting with a child at her breast before a grate without a fire in it. “That’s true,” he muttered heavily. “My lord, I appeal to you,” cried Mr. Weekes more excitedly than ever. “I did not come here to be browbeaten and insulted. I did not come here to witness religion made into mockery and dragged through the mire.” “Mr. Weekes,” said Northcote with a depth of compassion in his tone which made many veins run cold, “a subterfuge of this kind will not serve you. The jury have no desire that you should make a parade of your feelings at such a moment as this. They desire that you will resume your seat, and relinquish any further attempt to make their task more hideous than it already is.” “That is perfectly true,” exclaimed the foreman in a hoarse whisper. It was observed by those who were behind Northcote that in the stress of the mental anguish through which he had already passed, by constantly plucking with his fingers at the back of his hands, the skin had been pulled away and the bleeding flesh was exposed. “I appeal to your lordship,” cried Mr. Weekes. “My lord, I also appeal to you,” said Northcote; and the poise of his head and the lift of his chin, as it was directed upwards to the bench, reminded those who had seen it of the figure of Balzac as modelled by Rodin in clay. The dæmonic quality was dominant here, as is the case always when the gospel of force has its dealings with human nature. Few had suspected that this old judge, with his brusque manners and his great barking irascible voice was no longer fit to fill his position. His lionlike exterior was no more than the livery of his dignity. He was not the man to face a crisis, when above all things an iron nerve and an implacable will were needed to impose restraint upon a jury and an advocate who were in danger of trampling underfoot the accepted rules of decorum and procedure. And the week before the judge had buried his youngest daughter. When Northcote’s gaunt eyes were turned upon this old man, who was trembling violently under his ermine, the tears began to course down his face. “My God, he’s settled Bow-wow,” said the fat barrister on the back bench. “Always was a senile old fool at bottom,” said his companion. “That young bounder ought to lose his wig and gown.” “Shut up! He’s speaking again.” XXVII THE PERORATION