"Yesterday, my Lord President, Mr. Pursuivant swore, with equal assurance, as to the identity of Mr. William Jefferay with his assailant. We know now that he was mistaken,—may he not err in the present case?" The Pursuivant rose again hastily and, bowing to the President, said— "May I answer His Eminence the Cardinal, my Lord?" The Earl of Arundel bowed assent, and the Pursuivant proceeded to explain his first error. "Yesterday, my lords, I was not aware of the extraordinary likeness which exists between the twin brothers Mr. William and Mr. Ralph Jefferay, a likeness so wonderful that no man may tell them apart but by some sign or symbol. One of my witnesses, who is a Lewes man and knows the Jefferays well by sight, informed me of this fact when the verdict of acquittal was given in this Court yesterday. The sign of distinction between the brothers is a very simple one—Mr. William always wears a grey cap and Mr. Ralph a blue one. Now on the occasion of the assault I solemnly swore that my assailant, Ralph Jefferay, the prisoner, wore a _grey cap_, whether by design or accident I cannot say, hence the mistake of identity." The Pursuivant sat down with a malignant gleam of satisfaction in his fierce black eyes. There was silence in the Court and the judges consulted with each other; presently the Chancellor spoke. "The Court would fain see these wonderful brothers side by side," he said. "Is Mr. William Jefferay here?" The Clerk of the Court beckoned to Sir John Jefferay, who stood near to him, and, after a brief conversation, said— "Mr. William Jefferay is now at Gray's Inn, but he can be brought hither in a short time, my lord." "Let him be sent for," replied the Chancellor. During the interval in the proceedings men talked freely in low voices; it was marked that an air of gloom and despondency sat upon the faces of the friends of the Jefferays. Suddenly there was a rustling movement in the gangway of the Court, and a dead silence ensued as William Jefferay was perceived in the hands of the officers of the Court, who were leading him towards the dock. "Place them side by side," commanded the Chancellor. William entered the dock and stood beside his brother. The brothers looked into each other's face with a quiet air, in which sadness and love bore equal part; they clasped hands and so faced the Court. Even in that august presence a murmur of admiration and sympathy, closely mingled, ran through the assembly. There was no further need of words or explanation, it was evident to all why the first trial had miscarried, how the Pursuivant had made his great mistake. "It is enough, let Mr. William Jefferay step down," said the President. Yes, it was enough, there remained now but the dread sentence to be pronounced. The judges briefly consulted; then the Chancellor arose and, amid an ominous silence, said—