That head Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as good as dead and gone. When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in anticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box. Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader’s lead, examined the patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be— perhaps, if it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr. Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court. Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation. What did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn’t precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody’s. Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors’ prison? Didn’t see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors’ prison?—Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs? Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true? Positively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes. Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets? No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No. Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer patriotism? None whatever. The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him. He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of charity—never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the prisoner’s pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from the drawer of the prisoner’s desk. He had not put them there first. He had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn’t bear it, and had given information. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot; he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years; that was merely a coincidence. He didn’t call it a particularly curious coincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a curious coincidence that true patriotism was HIS only motive too. He was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him. The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis Lorry. “Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson’s bank?” “I am.” “On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and Dover by the mail?” “It did.” “Were there any other passengers in the mail?” “Two.” “Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?” “They did.” “Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?” “I cannot undertake to say that he was.” “Does he resemble either of these two passengers?” “Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.” “Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to render it unlikely that he was one of them?” “No.” “You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?” “No.” “So at least you say he may have been one of them?” “Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been—like myself— timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous air.” “Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?” “I certainly have seen that.” “Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your certain knowledge, before?” “I have.” “When?” “I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the voyage with me.” “At what hour did he come on board?” “At a little after midnight.” “In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board at that untimely hour?” “He happened to be the only one.” “Never mind about ‘happening,’ Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who came on board in the dead of the night?” “He was.” “Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?” “With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.” “They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?” “Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.” “Miss Manette!” The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and kept her hand drawn through his arm. “Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.” To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd. Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again. “Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?” “Yes, sir.” “Where?” “On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same occasion.” “You are the young lady just now referred to?” “O! most unhappily, I am!” The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer the questions put to you, and make no remark upon them.” “Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that passage across the Channel?” “Yes, sir.” “Recall it.” In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: “When the gentleman came on board—” “Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting his brows. “Yes, my Lord.” “Then say the prisoner.” “When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,” turning her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, “was much fatigued and in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take care of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four. The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could shelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed great gentleness and kindness for my father’s state, and I am sure he felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.” “Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?” “No.” “How many were with him?” “Two French gentlemen.” “Had they conferred together?” “They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat.” “Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?” “Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don’t know what papers.” “Like these in shape and size?” “Possibly, but indeed I don’t know, although they stood whispering very near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that they looked at papers.” “Now, to the prisoner’s conversation,
