Dom Adrian was just as he remembered him, perhaps a shade paler from the fierce attention of the last three days, but he had the same serene, confident air; his eyes were bright and luminous, and his voice (for he was speaking at this moment) perfectly natural and controlled.

It was hard at first to pick up the thread of what he was saying.  He had a sheet or two of paper before him, to which he referred as he spoke, and he seemed to be summing up, in a very allusive manner, some earlier speeches of his.  Technical terms made their appearance from time to time, and decrees were quoted by their initial Latin words—­decrees which conveyed nothing to the listener in the gallery.  It was difficult too, at this distance, to understand the very swift Latin which he spoke in a conversational voice that was almost casual.  His whole air was of one who is interested, but not overwhelmingly concerned, in the subject under debate.

He ended at last, and bowed.

Obviously they were not at a very critical part of the trial, thought Monsignor.  He felt extraordinarily reassured.  He had expected more of a scene.

The Dominican opened his eyes and took up a pen.  He glanced at his companions, but they made no sign or movement.

“You have made it perfectly clear,” he said.  “Nothing could be clearer.  I see” (he turned slightly to right and left, and his fellow-judges nodded gently in acquiescence)—­“I see no reason to modify what I said just now, and the judgment of the court must stand.  Nothing can be clearer to my mind—­and I must say that my assessors wholly concur, as you heard just now—­nothing can be clearer than that you have contradicted in the most express terms the decrees in question, and that you have refused to modify or to withdraw any of the theses under dispute.  Further, you have refused to avail yourself of any of the releases which are perfectly open to you by law.  You declined all those openings which I indicated to you, and you appear determined to push the matter to extremes.  I must tell you then plainly that I see nothing for it but the forwarding of our opinions to Rome, and I cannot hold out to you the smallest prospect that you will meet with a different judgment from the highest court.”

He paused a moment.

There was a profound silence in the court.  As Monsignor Masterman glanced round, unable to understand what it was that caused this sense of tremendous tension, he noticed a head or two in that array of faces drop suddenly as if in overwhelming emotion.  He looked at the prisoner; but there was no movement there.  The young monk had put his papers neatly together, and was standing, upright and motionless, with his hands clasped upon them.  The Dominican’s voice went on abruptly: 

“Have you anything further to say before the court dissolves?”

“I should like to express my sense of the extreme fairness and considerateness of my judges,” said the monk, “and to say again, as at the beginning, that I commit my cause unreservedly into the hands of God.”