The crier called for silence under pain of imprisonment, and as the hum of voices gradually became hushed, Mr.Blood considered with interest the twelve good men and true that composed the jury.

Neither good nor true did they look.

They were scared, uneasy, and hangdog as any set of thieves caught with their hands in the pockets of their neighbours.

They were twelve shaken men, each of whom stood between the sword of the Lord Chief Justice's recent bloodthirsty charge and the wall of his own conscience.
From them Mr.Blood's calm, deliberate glance passed on to consider the Lords Commissioners, and particularly the presiding Judge, that Lord Jeffreys, whose terrible fame had come ahead of him from Dorchester.
He beheld a tall, slight man on the young side of forty, with an oval face that was delicately beautiful.

There were dark stains of suffering or sleeplessness under the low-lidded eyes, heightening their brilliance and their gentle melancholy.