There seems to have been considerable difficulty in doing this, for Mr. Thomas Norton continuously refers to "riotous conduct," and even to "contempt of the Queen's Commissioner." Cheers of "God save Wessex!" alternated with the loyal cry of "God save the Queen." The men-at-arms had to use their halberds, and did so very effectually, one or two of the more excited "noise-makers" getting wounded about the face and hands. Finally the suggestion came from Mr. Barham, the Queen's Serjeant, that His Grace of Wessex should be concealed from the view of the populace, and, acting upon this advice, the Lieutenant of the Tower ordered his guard to close around the bar, whilst a low seat was provided for His Grace. The object of this mad enthusiasm being thus placed out of sight, the people became gradually more calm, and the noise subsided sufficiently for the Queen's Serjeant to give forth his final dictum. "My Lord's Grace, the Queen's Commissioner, High Steward of England, chargeth all persons to depart in God's peace and the Queen's, and hath dissolved this Commission!" "God save the Queen!" was shouted lustily, and then the great door was opened and the people began quietly to file out. The pale November sun had struggled out of its misty coverings, and touched the pinnacles and towers of the old Abbey with delicate gleams of golden grey. Slowly the crowd moved on, some of the more venturesome or more enthusiastic townsfolk, the 'prentices, and younger men, lingered round the precincts to see the great personages come out and to give a final cheer for His Grace of Wessex. The Hall itself seemed lonely now that the people had gone. The Lord High Steward once more called on the prisoner, who had already risen as soon as his noisy partisans had departed. As he had been impassive throughout the terrible ordeal of this trial for his life, so he remained now that on every face before him he read the inevitable acquittal. He had watched Ursula Glynde's graceful figure as, accompanied by the Cardinal de Moreno, she had finally made an obeisance before the judges, then had retired through the doors of the Lord Chancellor's Court. A great and awful disgust filled his whole heart. It was he now who was conscious of the loathsome web, which had enveloped him more completely than he had ever anticipated. He saw his acquittal hovering on the lips of his peers. Lord Chandois' kindly face was beaming with delight, Sir Robert Catline and Mr. Gilbert Gerard were conversing quite excitedly: his own friends, Sir Henry Beddingfield and Lord Mordaunt, Lord Huntingdon and Sir John Williams, were openly expressing their intense satisfaction. But for him, what did it all mean? An acquittal based on a lie, and that lie told by a woman to save him! But a lie for all that, and one which he could not refute, without telling the whole truth to his judges and branding _her_ publicly as a murderess and worse.