Ah! how I wished some angel then His pitying wing would spread, To shelter from the scorn of men That fair, defenseless head.”—_Mrs. Thorne Holmes._ On entering the thronged room, a group to the left of the door, forced itself upon Lord Montressor’s notice. It consisted of Victoire L’Orient, the little old French woman and the Abbe. The woman recognized Estelle, and pressed forward exclaiming vindictively: “Ah, good! So that you madame—verily! Your most obedient, madame,” etc. etc. Until, at length, without looking at her, Lord Montressor just put out his arm and brushed the troublesome reptile from his lady’s path, and led her on to the same secluded seat she had daily occupied since her attendance at court. They had not been seated more than five minutes, before they were joined by Lord Dazzleright, who came hurriedly to announce that there would be no more delay than was necessary to arrange preliminaries, and that his client would be almost immediately placed at the bar. And then he hastened away again to attend to some business connected with the approaching trial. Estelle closed her eyes and sank back in her chair. It had come, then, it had surely come. At the same bar at which within a fortnight past she had seen so many stand to answer to the charge of guilt, and from which she had seen so many sent to exile, to imprisonment, or to death, she also must stand to answer to the charge of crime, for which, should she be convicted, she also, even _she_ the delicate, sensitive, refined child of wealth, luxury and high rank would be sentenced—here again the haunting vision of the convict transport-packet, and the penal colony, with their brutalized or demonized crew, and all their loathsome and revolting horrors, swam darkly in upon her brain. “My God! my God! have mercy and let me die,” escaped in stifled tones from her ashy lips. “Estelle! my Estelle! be calm, be strong, be hopeful! See they are about to call you. Call thou on Him who once stood, as you are now about to stand, before man’s uncertain tribunal, to be judged by man’s often erring wisdom. Call thou on Him!” said Lord Montressor, earnestly as he arose, took her hand, drew her arm within his own, and attended by Mr. Oldfield, and followed by the eyes of all the people that thronged to suffocation the court-room, led her up to the bar, set a chair, seated her there, and placed himself beside her. The aged minister stood on the other side; he stooped and whispered: “When you rise, my child, do not wait for the order of the court, but unvail at once; the innocent need not conceal her brow of truth.” The indictment was then read, and the accused was ordered to rise and hold up her hand.