A fanfare of trumpets announced his arrival, with his postillions and servants and attachés. All wore full court dress, and the whole scene was picturesquely brilliant. Alan had not yet been admitted to the highest circles in Jovian society; his honour was to come on his wedding day—so to meet the exigencies of the case, a special raised seat had been placed at the right hand of the Rorka, and there Alan sat in state and watched the proceedings. There were neither lawyers nor barristers in this wonderful land of harmony. The case for the defence, if so it could be called, was taken by the High Priest—and for the prosecution by the highest Djoh in the whole of Keemar. The Rorka listened to the statements made on both sides, and gave his sentence as he thought fairest. No appeal could be made afterwards; his judgment was final. Never had there been such a case as this one. Arrack had broken the traditions of his land. If the Rorka adjudged him guilty, he would take his punishment stoically. The Rorka rose, and the silence in the court was profound. “Bring in Arrack the Miserable,” he cried, and Arrack appeared in the prisoner’s garb of an ugly neutral tint. This garment of shame was worn only by prisoners, when charged with some heinous offence. It was something of the shape of a Jewish gaberdine. About his waist the prisoner wore a hempen rope; his head was covered with a hood, and there were sandals upon his feet. “O Arrack,” said the Rorka, “take your seat upon the Penitent’s Chair, for you are accused by this court of most grievous dealings. If you are found guilty, a terrible fate awaits you. Speak first, Lamii, Djoh of all Keemar, read your charge first.” And Djoh Lamii, a dignified old greybeard, stepped forward and read from a parchment.