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.