‘It will be _sinfully_ disappointing if the case is hushed up,’ whispered one man to his neighbour, in another part of the Hall. ‘The Emperor is _non est_: he has _bunked_!’ ‘What! Has he fled? Impossible! He dare not do so. _He_ threw the gauntlet, and must abide the issue. He _cannot_ run away,’ returned his friend who was bewildered with amazement. ‘All the same, he is off, gone to Berlin on important State affairs, leaving word that the trial could be abandoned altogether, or take its chance without him.’ ‘I hope it won’t be permitted to fall through,’ cried the other man excitedly; ‘it would be monstrous after all this fuss, and preparation.’ ‘I cannot find an adjective in our language strong enough to express _my_ disappointment if it collapse. I want to see Mercia righted; she is honour and probity itself, and the opportunity of clearing her character should not be denied her, notwithstanding the absence of her accuser.’ ‘See,’ said his friend, ‘the Empress is taking her seat near Nicholas of Russia, that looks healthy—she is doubtless expecting a _dénouement_ of which she wishes to be the witness.’ ‘But there is no Felicitas to escort her, that proves the account of his flight to be trustworthy.’ ‘I wish her joy of the situation,’ remarked an all-knowing one; ‘she’ll wish a thousand times over she had kept away.’ Just before the great clock pointed at half-past ten, disengaged barristers, who came to see and hear for the sake of gaining experience, took their appointed seats, for this custom was formally recognised. Counsel engaged in the case, arrayed in gown and wig, appeared also, whose capabilities were freely discussed by the onlookers. But, when Mercia, escorted by the renowned Swami entered the Hall, so universal was the feeling in her favour, that a great burst of applause greeted her appearance. It was as spontaneous as it was unusual, for that great mass appeared to be moved by one emotion, which could only find utterance by an intense roar of hand-clapping; signifying as plainly as if delivered in so many words—‘Mercia, we believe in thee: before we hear thy defence we feel in our hearts that thine is a just cause, and thou art good and true to the core!’ Mercia raised her eyes, and looking round at the assembled people, smiled sweetly, and bowed her head in acknowledgment of the sympathy accorded her; while attendant ushers vainly called for silence, deeming it their duty to put down all demonstrations of approval. She was attired in a rich crimson velvet gown that fell in graceful folds from her shapely shoulders; the hue of which lent a deeper rose-tint to her cheeks, whose colour had somewhat paled during her incarceration.