Even now, across the gap of years, my gorge rises at the mockery which, in the King's name, those gentlemen made of justice.

I can allow for the troubled conditions of the times, and I can realize how in cases of civil disturbances and rebellion it may be expedient to deal summarily with traitors, yet not all the allowances that I can think of would suffice to condone the methods of that tribunal.
The trial was conducted in private by the Keeper of the Seals--a lean, wizened individual, with an air as musty and dry as that of the parchments among which he had spent his days.

He was supported by six judges, and on his right sat the King's Commissioner, Monsieur de Chatellerault--the bruised condition of whose countenance still advertised the fact that we had met but yesterday.
Upon being asked my name and place of abode, I created some commotion by answering boldly "I am the Sieur Marcel de Saint-Pol, Marquis of Bardelys, of Bardelys in Picardy." The President--that is to say, the Keeper of the Seals--turned inquiringly to Chatellerault.

The Count, however, did no more than smile and point to something written on a paper that lay spread upon the table.

The President nodded.
"Monsieur Rene de Lesperon," said he, "the Court may perhaps not be able to discriminate whether this statement of yours is a deliberate attempt to misguide or frustrate the ends of justice, or whether, either in consequence of your wounds or as a visitation of God for your treason, you are the victim of a deplorable hallucination.