Law-logic is a marvellous thing. “Wall left island day after flogging,” it persists; “_ergo_, no mutiny.” The jury suck in this eloquence open-mouthed--visions of neatly-plaited halters hover before their retinas. “Governors never turn their backs directly mutiny is quelled,” argues Law, and the myriad black-and-white sprites, who, invisible and in silence, weave their gossamer threads of passion into the webs of poor human nature, hear and tremble. Yet their handicraft still sparkles with the hues of Iris, for not even British law-giver can paint the spirits of the soul in the dull self-colour of his own dreary brain. “Generals never desert their beaten army,” we can hear Law thunder at Judges’ dinner ten years later; “Napoleon is still with his troops on the Beresina!” Wonderful logic, wonderful Law! Pity, for the sake of cocksuredom, that hearts do not beat as he bade them. “Prisoner did not report this rope’s-end business to Secretary Townshend,” cries the logician. “Why not? Because mutiny plea was an after-thought to cloak his crime.” One wonders of what fashion were the accounts of his stewardship, if any, that this stalwart pillar of Church and State made in daily confession to his God. Did he omit naught? Or did he report all cruel lashes for which he had given sentence, and did he speak of his savage opposition to a change of the bloody code? Kind forgetfulness given by Providence to those who need it most! “Prisoner did not report flogging, because he did not know the man was dead.” Jury mouths open wider upon this marvellous Law, for reason whispers in their ears, “Then prisoner did not intend that the man should die.” But reason is dinned out of their tradesmen pates. “After-thought--after-thought!” clangs ding-dong Law, and echo comes to the true and bewildered twelve: “Away with him to the gallows!” First witness appears--Evan Lewis--Cambrian bred; a race of man for the most part having no mean, superlative, or unspeakable. Lewis was, or says he was, orderly sergeant on the day of the Goree flagellation; now he is Bow Street runner, brave in scarlet waistcoat. “No mutiny!” declares this Lewis. “Men were as good as gold. They couldn’t have been bad if they’d tried.” Perceval gently leads the witness along, and much is communicated. “Flogged to death without trial”--such is the meaning of Taffy’s testimony. In due course, other soldiers of the precious garrison follow--one, two, three, four, five--and the parrot cry, “No mutiny,” smites the ears of the tradesmen in the jury-box. The Scotch lip of the Lord-of-Isles grows more attenuated, and he sees the man in the dock crowned with halo of crimson. His busy pencil scribbles notes for the edification--at the proper time--of the luckless twelve men, good and true. “Witnesses each say different things,” writes Caledonian pencil. “But what else can you expect? The thing happened twenty years ago!” And this Caledonian tongue repeats--at the great and proper time.