All those who knew Lord Jeffreys regarded this as the lull before the storm, and braced themselves for the explosion.

But none came.
Slowly, faintly, the colour crept back into that ashen face.

The scarlet figure lost its rigidity, and bent forward.

His lordship began to speak.
In a muted voice and briefly--much more briefly than his wont on such occasions and in a manner entirely mechanical, the manner of a man whose thoughts are elsewhere while his lips are speaking--he delivered sentence of death in the prescribed form, and without the least allusion to what Peter Blood had said.

Having delivered it, he sank back exhausted, his eyes half-closed, his brow agleam with sweat.
The prisoners filed out.
Mr.Pollexfen--a Whig at heart despite the position of Judge-Advocate which he occupied--was overheard by one of the jurors to mutter in the ear of a brother counsel: "On my soul, that swarthy rascal has given his lordship a scare.