“Excellently well done, my Stella! You are my wife! Where should I be, but beside my wife in her trial? Have I not said that I would stand upon the legality of our marriage. How shall I stand by our marriage, and desert my wife? I never contemplated such an inconsistency for a moment! It is true—for that no one should venture to say, or hint, that selfish or unscrupulous passion had governed my actions—I consented to forego my rights and inclinations in favor of your delicate reserve, and yield up to the care of Mr. Oldfield; and I forbore to intrude, either by visit or letter, upon the sanctuary of your private life. Now, however, the case is widely different. You are before the public, before a judge, charged with a crime, exposed to a severe ordeal. Shall I leave you to tread this wine-press alone? No, no, so help me Heaven at my bitterest need—no! Before the same public, before the same judge, through all the ordeal, will I stand by your side, and with what manhood, strength and virtue there may be within me, assert my position and your innocence. Nor man, nor demon—world, flesh, nor devil, shall prevent me doing thus! And may Christ so aid me in my greatest extremity as I am true to thee! Amen,” he said, and reverently bowed his head. It was vain to oppose a will like that of Lord Montressor. Besides, he was approved by Lord Dazzleright, and felt to be a tower of strength by Mr. Oldfield. “We were about to find a comfortable seat for her ladyship,” said the counsel. “I have already found one. Will you go with us, my lord?—and you, reverend sir?” inquired Lord Montressor, bowing to his two friends, and leading the way through the crowd that respectfully divided to let him pass. He had provided a seat in a distant and retired part of the court-room, out of sight of the prisoners’ dock, and nearly out of hearing of all that was revolting in the proceedings. Here she sat, unobserved and unmolested for a time, Lord Montressor, Mr. Oldfield and Lord Dazzleright standing as a living shield between her and the eyes of the crowd. There was little danger now, however, that she should be troubled by the impertinent curiosity of others. For all attention was now turned upon the proceedings of the court at the upper end of the room. The jury was already empanneled, and the first case on the docket called up. It was that of Dlifp Oorak, the Gipsy king, indicted for the murder of Sir George Bannerman’s gamekeeper. He was now arraigned and standing at the bar. All eyes were fixed upon him—a little dark, wiry figure of a man, with sharp features and deep set glittering black eyes, thatched with a wisp of wild black hair, and looking alert, spry and restless, as if in another instant he would break loose, pound over intervening obstacles, clear the door or window, and be away in the free air again!