“I was never with that army.  No witness has sworn to that, and I dare swear that no witness will.  I never was attracted to the late rebellion.  I regarded the adventure as a wicked madness.  I take leave to ask your lordship” (his brogue became more marked than ever) “what should I, who was born and bred a papist, be doing in the army of the Protestant Champion?”

“A papist thou?” The judge gloomed on him a moment.  “Art more like a snivelling, canting Jack Presbyter.  I tell you, man, I can smell a Presbyterian forty miles.”

“Then I’ll take leave to marvel that with so keen a nose your lordship can’t smell a papist at four paces.”

There was a ripple of laughter in the galleries, instantly quelled by the fierce glare of the Judge and the voice of the crier.

Lord Jeffreys leaned farther forward upon his desk.  He raised that delicate white hand, still clutching its handkerchief, and sprouting from a froth of lace.

“We’ll leave your religion out of account for the moment, friend,” said he.  “But mark what I say to you.”  With a minatory forefinger he beat the time of his words.  “Know, friend, that there is no religion a man can pretend to can give a countenance to lying.  Thou hast a precious immortal soul, and there is nothing in the world equal to it in value.  Consider that the great God of Heaven and Earth, before Whose tribunal thou and we and all persons are to stand at the last day, will take vengeance on thee for every falsehood, and justly strike thee into eternal flames, make thee drop into the bottomless pit of fire and brimstone, if thou offer to deviate the least from the truth and nothing but the truth.  For I tell thee God is not mocked.  On that I charge you to answer truthfully.  How came you to be taken with these rebels?”

Peter Blood gaped at him a moment in consternation.  The man was incredible, unreal, fantastic, a nightmare judge.  Then he collected himself to answer.

“I was summoned that morning to succour Lord Gildoy, and I conceived it to be the duty imposed upon me by my calling to answer that summons.”

“Did you so?” The Judge, terrible now of aspect — his face white, his twisted lips red as the blood for which they thirsted — glared upon him in evil mockery.  Then he controlled himself as if by an effort.  He sighed.  He resumed his earlier gentle plaintiveness.  “Lord!  How you waste our time.  But I’ll have patience with you.  Who summoned you?”

“Master Pitt there, as he will testify.”

“Oh!  Master Pitt will testify — he that is himself a traitor self-confessed.  Is that your witness?”

“There is also Master Baynes here, who can answer to it.”

“Good Master Baynes will have to answer for himself; and I doubt not he’ll be greatly exercised to save his own neck from a halter.  Come, come, sir; are these your only witnesses?”

“I could bring others from Bridgewater, who saw me set out that morning upon the crupper of Master Pitt’s horse.”