‘One cannot call them a party, as I have heard them designated in Spain,’ said Sir John parenthetically. ‘They are quite unworthy of so distinguished a name. These Chartists consist of the most ignorant people in the land—the rabble, in fact, headed by a few scheming malcontents: professional agitators who are not above picking the pockets of the poor. Many capitalists and landowners have suffered wrong and loss at the hands of these disturbers of the peace, none—’ He paused and gave a sharp sigh which seemed to catch him unawares, and almost suggested that the man had, after all, or had at one time possessed, a heart. ‘None more severely than myself,’ he concluded. The General’s face instantly expressed the utmost concern. ‘My dear sir,’ he murmured. ‘For many years,’ continued Sir John hurriedly, as if resenting anything like sympathy, as all good Britons do, ‘the authorities acted in an irresolute and foolish manner, not daring to put down the disturbances with a firm hand. At length, however, a riot of a more serious character at a town in Wales necessitated the interference of the military. The ringleaders were arrested, and for some time the authorities were in considerable doubt as to what to do to them. I interested myself strongly in the matter—having practised the law in my younger days—and was finally enabled to see my object carried out. These men were arraigned, not as mere brawlers and rioters, but under a charge of high treason—a much more serious affair for them.’ He broke off with a harsh laugh, which was only a matter of the voice, for his marble face remained unchanged, and probably had not at any time the power of expressing mirth. ‘The ringleaders of the Newport riots were sentenced to long terms of imprisonment, which served my purpose excellently.’ Sir John Pleydell spoke with that cynical frankness which seems often to follow upon a few years devoted to practice at the Common Law Bar, where men in truth spend their days in dissecting the mental diseases of their fellow creatures, and learn to conclude that a pure and healthy mind is possessed by none. He moved slightly in his chair, and seemed to indicate that he had made his first point. ‘I hope,’ he said, addressing Conyngham directly, ‘that I am not fatiguing you?’ ‘Not at all,’ returned the younger Englishman coolly; ‘I am much interested.’ The General was studying the texture of his pocket-handkerchief. Estella’s face had grown cold and set. Her eyes from time to time turned towards Conyngham. Sir John Pleydell was not creating a good impression. ‘I will now come to the more personal part of my story,’ went on that gifted speaker, ‘and proceed to explain my reason for inflicting it upon you.’