In the dock was seated Mercia, looking calm, beautiful, and self-possessed. She was arrayed in a flowing crimson velvet gown that cast a warm glow over her face which had paled considerably either through anxiety, or prison confinement. Innumerable opera glasses were being levelled at her by both sexes; while busy barristers in their black gowns and white wigs scanned their note-books. The place set apart for newspaper reporters was filled with representatives of the press setting in order their respective phonographs, which were to register the whole proceedings of the case. Where the distance was not great as soon as the court closed each day, the phonograph containing the evidence of the witnesses, speeches of the barristers, and in fact everything that was said at the trial, was packed off forthwith to the editor of each newspaper, by the quickest conveyance possible, who cut down the report as he thought fit, to suit the dimensions of his space in the newspaper, and the fastidiousness of his readers; for the frailties of human nature as delineated in a court of justice do not form at all times an edifying spectacle for the young, or the modest. On his feet stood the Crown Prosecutor, evidently stating his case, while Geometrus and Sadbag were seated at one side; but no Emperor Felicitas could be discovered anywhere: he indeed, was conspicuous by his absence, seeing he was the only witness in his own case. Felicitas gazed in amazement at the immense group photographed there; ejaculating from time to time, as he recognised each member of the nobility with whom he was acquainted, pictured before him. ‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed, ‘there is Nicholas of Russia, and his fat Empress! How interested she looks—see she has got her ear-trumpet in use, endeavouring to miss nothing. And Louis of France, forsooth; the new Louis Twentieth, not at all a bad looking fellow! And Osbert my cousin, who averred he’d be dumb, but evidently intends to be neither blind, nor deaf. ‘And there’s the Duke of Northumberland, with his skinny spouse seated beside him; whose skin is just like a piece of crinkled yellow leather. And Lord Lennox and his pretty bride! Well, I must say, they’re all most excellent likenesses—they look indeed, like living pictures. What a treat they are getting! An Emperor in a witness box isn’t an every-day occurrence, to be sure! And, oh, there’s Mercia, how pale, how beautiful, how sad she appears! Ah, Swami, I have no heart to go on with this prosecution. I love her—I would die for her—canst thou not exercise thy magic and _make_ her love _me_?’ ‘I possess no power over the human heart,’ returned Swami coldly. ‘My work is to make known futurity to a slight extent; which will serve as a guidance to the inquirer in matters of difficulty. Besides,’ added the Thought-reader lightly, ‘thy Majesty is no longer in the matrimonial market. Why trouble then the lady when thou hast nothing to offer her but disgrace?’ he inquired after a pause.