is that man?” whispered Frances, gazing in frightened fascination on the rude interrupter.
“That is John Pym, the chief prosecutor and deadly personal enemy of Lord Strafford.”
As the girl gazed at this dominating individuality, all the froth of confidence in her father’s acquittal, whipped up by the chatter of conversation at the beginning, evaporated. There stood the personified hatred of England against the Earl of Strafford. No wavering in accent or action there, but a determined man, knowing what he wanted and bent on having it. To her excited imagination the resolute face took on the semblance of a death-mask, and the clenched hand seemed to grasp the shaft of an axe. It was as if the headsman had suddenly stood forth and claimed his own, and a chill as of the grave, swept over the audience with a shudder in its wake.
A low wailing cry went sobbing across the silence; a cry that tugged at Strafford’s heart when he heard it. What memory did it stir in his troubled mind? A reminiscence of something that had escaped him, crowded out by matters of more pressing moment.
“What is that?” he asked anxiously.
“It is nothing, my lord,” answered Vollins, stepping between his master and the commotion among the women. “A lady has fainted, that is all. They are taking her out.”
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