“Oh! you are trembling on the brink of the grave!” said Alfred, addressing him in a low, solemn tone: “pause, and reflect, whilst you are allowed a moment’s time. A few years must be all you have to spend in this world. A few moments may take you to another, to appear before a higher tribunal--before that Judge, who knows our hearts, who sees into yours at this instant.” The staff in the old man’s hand shook violently. Sir Robert Percy’s counsel interrupted--said that the witness should not be intimidated, and appealed to the court. The judge was silent, and Alfred proceeded, “You know that you are upon your oath--these are possibly the last words you may ever utter--look that they be true. You know that men have been struck dead whilst uttering falsehoods. You are upon your oath--did you see Sir John Percy sign this deed?” The old man attempted in vain to articulate. “Give him time to recollect,” cried the counsel on the opposite side: “give him leave to see the writing now he has his spectacles.” He looked at the writing twice--his head and hands shaking so that he could not fix his spectacles. The question was repeated by the judge. The old man grew pale as death. Sir Robert Percy, just opposite to him, cleared his throat to catch the witness’s attention, then darted at him such a look as only he could give. “Did I see Sir John Percy sign this deed?” repeated William Clerke: “yes, I did.” “You hear, my lord, you hear,” cried Sir Robert’s counsel, “the witness says he did--there is no occasion farther to intimidate this poor old man. He is not used to speak before such an audience. There is no need of eloquence--all we want is truth. The evidence is positive. My lord, with your lordship’s leave, I fancy we may dismiss him.” They were going to hurry him away, but Alfred Percy said that, with the permission of the court, he must cross-examine that witness farther, as the whole event of the trial depended upon the degree of credit that might be given to his evidence. By this time the old man had somewhat recovered himself; he saw that his age and reverend appearance still prepossessed the jury in his favour, and from their looks, and from the whispers near him, he learned that his tremor and hesitation had not created any suspicion of guilt, but had been attributed rather to the sensibility of virtue, and the weakness of age. And, now that the momentary emotion which eloquence had produced on his mind had subsided, he recollected the bribe that had been promised to him. He was aware that he had already sworn what, if he contradicted, might subject him to be prosecuted for perjury. He now stood obstinately resolved to persevere in his iniquity. The first falsehoods pronounced and believed, the next would be easy. “Your name is William Clerke, and this,” said Alfred (pointing to the witness’s signature), “is your handwriting?” “Yes, I say it is.”