And not ever
The justice and the truth o' the question carries
The due o' the verdict with it.
—HENRY VIII. V. 1.
At Michael's call, at his sudden rush for the protection of his beloved, general confusion prevailed such as had never before been witnessed in the sober halls of Westminster.
Gorgeously-clad gentlemen of high degree, ladies in silks and brocades, elbowed and pushed one another, climbing on their chairs, in order to have a clear view of the small group on the floor of the hall at the foot of the judge's bench—Michael kneeling on one knee, Rose Marie half prostrate on the ground, Papa Legros with large coloured handkerchief mopping his streaming forehead.
These were times when men gave freer rein to their emotions than they do now; they were not ashamed of them, and modern civilisation had not yet begun to propagate its false doctrine that only what is ugly and sordid is real, and what is fine and noble—and therefore mayhap a trifle unbridled and primitive—is false and must be suppressed.
That public feeling had—with characteristic irresponsibility—veered round to the accused and to these two witnesses was undoubted. The poignancy of the situation had told on every one's nerves. It had been a moving and palpitating drama, vivid, real and pulsating with love, the noble passion that makes the whole world kin.
The same men and women who awhile ago had clamoured for the traitor's head, who had heaped opprobrium, invectives and curses upon him, were now quite prepared to demand his acquittal, with as little logic in their sympathy as they had shown in their unreasoning vituperations. The same primeval vices of bigotry and intolerance that had presided at the trials of Stailey and Coleman and sent them to the gallows, sat here in judgment, too, equally intolerant of contradiction, equally bigoted and peremptory.
In the midst of this unprecedented turmoil which had turned stately Westminster Hall into an arena filled with wildly-excited spectators, the ushers' loud calls for silence were absolutely drowned. Nor could the Attorney-General and the Lord Chief Justice make themselves heard by the jury, even though his lordship did his best to admonish these twelve honourable gentlemen not to allow their sentiment to run away with their conscience.
"Justice, good Masters, justice above all! Remember these people are all Papists. They will help one another through thick and thin. What is a papal dispensation, good Masters? It can be bought and bartered. 'Tis a true witness we want, an honourable witness to prove the truth of what may be but a fabulous concoction, devised to cheat the gallows of a traitor."
"Nay, then odd's fish!" here interposed a loud voice from out the crowd; "since it must be, it shall be, and here, my Lord Justice, is a witness to your hand whose honourability I'll challenge you to doubt."
The tones rang clear and loud; they were those of a man accustomed to be heard in large or small assemblies, of a man who knew how to make his presence felt and his word obeyed.
Instantly the waves of murmurs, of cries, of excited whispers were stilled. Eyes so long fixed on the moving spectacle at the foot of the bench were turned in the direction of the speaker.
It was my Lord of Rochester, standing beside the king. He waited a moment, then taking the judge's silence for assent, and obviously encouraged by a nod from His Majesty himself, he made his way to the witness bar.
"My Lord of Rochester," protested the Attorney-General sternly, "by what right do you come forward at this hour?"
"By the right that every man hath in England, to bear testimony for or against a man or woman accused of crime," replied my Lord of Rochester. "I stand here as a witness on behalf of the prisoner, and called by the other witness—Rose Marie Legros—to corroborate what she already hath said."
"Do you swear?"
"I'll swear to tell all the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God."
"All on behalf of the accused?" sneered Sir William Jones.
"Every word which I must utter will be in his favour, sir, seeing that on the nineteenth day of April, I too, in company with Mister Rupert Kestyon, then styled my Lord of Stowmaries and Rivaulx, and with Sir John Ayloffe, were present at the Church of St. Gervais where Mistress Rose Marie Legros did plight her troth to the accused. We witnessed their departure from the church to the house of Master Legros, tailor-in-chief to His Majesty the King of France, where great festivities were then the order of the day. The accused and Mistress Rose Marie Legros did start for St. Denis on that selfsame afternoon in the presence of a vast number of spectators, from whom I had detailed account of the event. We—that is Mister Rupert Kestyon, Sir John Ayloffe and myself—did make for St. Denis less than an hour after the accused and the lady had left the tailor's house. We arrived at the inn of the 'Three Archangels' at ten of the clock and there found the accused all alone, and we did stay with him, and supped with him until far into the night. This do I swear on my most solemn oath, and, therefore, any one who says that the accused was in Paris on the evening of that nineteenth day of April is a liar and a perjurer—so help me God!"
My Lord of Rochester's lengthy speech was listened to in silent attention. Michael, kneeling beside Rose Marie, scarcely heeded it. What happened to him now or hereafter mattered so little, now that he knew that she loved him with that strength which moveth mountains.
But to the vast company assembled here, all that my Lord of Rochester said mattered a great deal, for it was a confirmation of inward convictions. It gave sympathy free rein, having crowned it with justification.
Even Sir William Jones felt that the prosecution had completely broken down beneath the weight of my Lord of Rochester's evidence. He meant to demand further corroboration, seeing that Sir John Ayloffe was in court; but it would be an uphill fight now, against what was too obvious justice to be wilfully set aside.
But he did ask my Lord of Rochester why he had delayed in coming forward until well-nigh it had been too late.
"I was ready to come forward at any time," was Rochester's simple reply; "had the prisoner called me, I would have told the truth at once. But among gentlemen, sir, there is an unspoken compact, guessed at by those who understand one another as gentlemen should. That the accused did not desire mine evidence I readily saw. Only when a noble lady came forward in sublime sacrifice and I feared that this—great as it was—might prove purposeless, then did I feel in honour bound to corroborate her testimony and to prove her true, whilst placing at her feet the expression of my most humble respect."
To have doubted my Lord of Rochester's testimony had been madness in the face of public feeling as well as of justice. No one would ever attempt to suggest that his lordship was either a Papist or biassed in favour of Roman Catholicism. Moreover, Sir John Ayloffe, also an unimpeachably honourable gentleman, was there to add his word to that of his friend. Sir William Jones having called him, asked him but a few questions.
What could Cousin John do, but swear to the truth? Believe me that had he found the slightest loophole whereby he could even now arrange a happy marriage between his fair cousin and any earl of Stowmaries who happened to be bearing the title at the time, he would have done it, and earned that £12,000 which now certainly seemed hopelessly beyond his grasp.
But he could find no loophole, nor could he attempt to deny the truth of what Lord Rochester had said.
By the time Sir John Ayloffe had given what evidence was asked of him, the spectators were loudly clamouring for the verdict.
"Not guilty! Not guilty!" came in excited shouts from the furthermost corners of the great hall.
Of a truth had the informers been recalled they could not have escaped with their lives, and as a measure of precaution the Lord Chief Justice, before he began his summing up, did, we know, order the removal of Pye and Oates through a back door and unbeknown to the crowd. Oates' villainies did, unfortunately, rise triumphant from out the ashes of this his first signal defeat in his campaign of perjuries. As for Pye, he passed through that back door out of ken. I believe that his name doth occur on several of the lists of witnesses brought up against the unfortunate Papists during the whole feverish period of the Popish plots, so we may assume that he continued his career of informer with some benefit to himself.
But in Westminster Hall to-day the verdict was a foregone conclusion. Even whilst the Lord Chief Justice summed up—as he did, we are told, most eloquently and entirely in favour of the accused—he was frequently interrupted by cries of: "Not guilty! Not guilty! The verdict!"
When the verdict was pronounced, with absolute unanimity by the jury in whose hands lay the life that had been so nobly fought for, it was received with acclamation.
Men and women cheered to the echoes, whilst many voices shouted: "God save Your Majesty!" There was a general rush for the centre of the Hall, there where that small group of three still stood isolated. The musketeers had grave difficulty in keeping any order.
In the midst of all this turmoil no one noticed that from the dark corner beneath the mullioned window there rose the figure of a young man dressed in rough clothes of sad-coloured cloth, whose pale face was almost distorted by lines of passionate anger.
He drew a mask over his face and made his way through the excited crowd. Under cover of the confusion, the rushing to and fro, the cheering for the acquitted and the king, he quietly passed out of sight.