‘Besides, those ebony trifles that ladies sometimes carry do not kill, they do but temporarily paralyse the part they touch.’ ‘Oh, it matters little now, what they do—I wish she had killed me outright—anything but this dreadful torture of doubt to go through. This frightful fear nearly drives me mad—I wish it were all over.’ ‘What?’ inquired Swami, wishful to obtain a clear command from the king in so many words, for his thoughts were in a state of the wildest confusion. ‘The trial—the trial—I dread it. I heartily wish I had never sent that warrant. The Crown Prosecutor has got the case in hand, and, Swami, I am heartily ashamed of it. Help me, I pray thee, and tell me how it will all end, and I will well reward thee.’ The Emperor looked like one distraught; his blue eyes gleamed with feverish excitement: his lips twitched uneasily, and he clasped his hands together with the agony of his mind, over which fear more than repentance predominated. Swami soon perceived wherein the Emperor’s chief trouble lay. ‘I see by the brain-waves emanating from thee that the woman thou lovest is in confinement in the first-class misdemeanants’ quarters, in the Metropolitan Prison. Now that will do; I know enough. Let thy Majesty come at this hour to-morrow, and I will show thee what thou desirest to learn.’ Then the Emperor remembering that the real object of his visit was not yet accomplished, blurted out—‘I desire to learn the issue of the trial, that is my chief care at present.’ ‘Of that I am aware, Sire,’ replied Swami courteously. ‘Thou desirest to learn the issue of the trial on thine own account. I perfectly understand it. In the meantime I would advise that the lady be allowed her liberty, subject to her own recognisances. It will be more advisable from every point of view, lest thy subjects deem thee harsh and unjust towards her. Whichever way the trial goes it is wise to show a merciful bearing, so that thou mayest retain thy subjects’ good opinion. It cannot hurt the case for the lady will not flee, be well assured of that. She will prefer to face her case in open court, for by all accounts that have reached me of her character, Mercia isn’t made of stuff to shirk a duty.’ ‘Ha, Sorcerer, thou knowest her name! Who told it thee?’ exclaimed Felicitas in much surprise. ‘Thyself,’ replied the Soul-Reader, ‘I read it on thy brain. Moreover, fear, more than love, predominates within thy bosom. Thy Majesty doth dread the testimony of the witnesses arrayed against thee.’ ‘I do not deny it,’ returned Felicitas meekly, for he was completely subdued by the two-fold influence of anxiety concerning the impending case, and awe of the Soul-reader’s power to divine his thought.