The Star Chamber once more!

For an hour before the sitting of the Court an unwonted excitement pervaded its precincts—for the news of the tragic events of the preceding day had gone abroad till London was ringing with it.

The warders within the building were doubled in number, and a strong party of halberdiers kept order in the purlieus of Westminster.

The reason of this display of force was soon manifested.

From the Temple and from Gray's Inn the young law students had assembled in great strength, and with them were the 'prentices from the City, brandishing their clubs and evidently eager for a fray.

Among the young "limbs of the law" the twin brothers were well known, and their recent exploit on the Thames had raised their popularity to a burning heat, while the 'prentices found sufficient justification for their presence in the fact that Sir John Jefferay was the Member of Parliament for the City, and his cause was theirs also.

As the Pursuivant and his men made their way towards the Chamber, protected by a strong body of armed men, curses loud and deep were hurled at them from a thousand throats.

A sudden change to cheering and hurrahing took place as the multitude recognized the Treasurer of Gray's Inn and the Master of the Rolls, who were passing through the streets in company.

London had seldom been so agitated—nor was the excitement lessened when the halberdiers were strengthened by some troops of the Household Guards from Whitehall. Inside the Chambers many of the notabilities of the Court had gathered together, and when the judges entered it, it was noted that nearly the whole of its august body of members was present.

By the side of Cardinal Pole sat the Bishop of London, Edmund Bonner, a Prelate whose attendance at this Court was a rare event.

But behind them sat a figure upon whom all eyes were fixed—it was King Philip.

He was dressed in a suit of black velvet without ornament of any kind, yet its dark hue was somewhat relieved by the spotless whiteness of the Valenciennes lace which bedecked his neck and wrists.

He was of moderate stature and very spare in body. His long oval face was somewhat colourless, he wore a beard and moustache of a sandy colour. His large piercing eyes were of a sombre blue, the mouth large, with heavy hanging lip and protruding lower jaw. His demeanour was still and silent, tinged with a Castilian haughtiness. Philip was thirty years of age at this period, but men would have given him credit for a longer record; perhaps the cares of his world-wide sovereignty had made him prematurely old.

Few mortals loved Philip; yet one fond heart had given itself to him unreservedly, for Mary loved her husband with a devotion as deep as it was unrequited.

The opening of the Court had not yet been formally declared, and a murmur of subdued voices in eager consultation filled the air.

Men noted that the King was conversing with the dignified ecclesiastics in front of him.

Presently a silver trumpet sounded, and the Lord High Chancellor took his seat as President of the Court. A dead silence ensued, and the Clerk thereupon pronounced the Court open.

All eyes turned to the dock as the prisoner was seen to be entering it, bowing low to the Court as he did so.

His friends had mustered strongly in the Chamber, and an unrestrainable murmur of sympathy arose from them as they marked the deathly pallor of his youthful countenance, his wounded arm (still supported in a sling) and a great scar of a recent wound on his handsome face.

The case was duly "called on," and the charge of riot and assault was made against the prisoner.

Ralph would have pleaded "Guilty" forthwith, but Sir John had addressed himself to this matter at his interview with Ralph at the Fleet prison on the preceding evening, and upon his advice the prisoner pleaded "Not Guilty!"

Thereupon the Pursuivant took his place in the witness-box and proceeded to set forth, with great detail, the well-known tale of the assault in Chiddingly woods. He now swore that the prisoner in the dock, Ralph Jefferay, was his assailant, and this was duly corroborated by his witnesses.

At this point Cardinal Pole addressed the President—

"Yesterday, my Lord President, Mr. Pursuivant swore, with equal assurance, as to the identity of Mr. William Jefferay with his assailant. We know now that he was mistaken,—may he not err in the present case?"

The Pursuivant rose again hastily and, bowing to the President, said—

"May I answer His Eminence the Cardinal, my Lord?"

The Earl of Arundel bowed assent, and the Pursuivant proceeded to explain his first error.

"Yesterday, my lords, I was not aware of the extraordinary likeness which exists between the twin brothers Mr. William and Mr. Ralph Jefferay, a likeness so wonderful that no man may tell them apart but by some sign or symbol. One of my witnesses, who is a Lewes man and knows the Jefferays well by sight, informed me of this fact when the verdict of acquittal was given in this Court yesterday. The sign of distinction between the brothers is a very simple one—Mr. William always wears a grey cap and Mr. Ralph a blue one. Now on the occasion of the assault I solemnly swore that my assailant, Ralph Jefferay, the prisoner, wore a grey cap, whether by design or accident I cannot say, hence the mistake of identity."

The Pursuivant sat down with a malignant gleam of satisfaction in his fierce black eyes.

There was silence in the Court and the judges consulted with each other; presently the Chancellor spoke.

"The Court would fain see these wonderful brothers side by side," he said. "Is Mr. William Jefferay here?"

The Clerk of the Court beckoned to Sir John Jefferay, who stood near to him, and, after a brief conversation, said—

"Mr. William Jefferay is now at Gray's Inn, but he can be brought hither in a short time, my lord."

"Let him be sent for," replied the Chancellor.

During the interval in the proceedings men talked freely in low voices; it was marked that an air of gloom and despondency sat upon the faces of the friends of the Jefferays.

Suddenly there was a rustling movement in the gangway of the Court, and a dead silence ensued as William Jefferay was perceived in the hands of the officers of the Court, who were leading him towards the dock.

"Place them side by side," commanded the Chancellor.

William entered the dock and stood beside his brother. The brothers looked into each other's face with a quiet air, in which sadness and love bore equal part; they clasped hands and so faced the Court.

Even in that august presence a murmur of admiration and sympathy, closely mingled, ran through the assembly.

There was no further need of words or explanation, it was evident to all why the first trial had miscarried, how the Pursuivant had made his great mistake.

"It is enough, let Mr. William Jefferay step down," said the President.

Yes, it was enough, there remained now but the dread sentence to be pronounced.

The judges briefly consulted; then the Chancellor arose and, amid an ominous silence, said—

"The Court finds the prisoner guilty, and its sentence is that the prisoner pay a fine of five thousand pounds, that he stand in pillory at Tyburn for one day, and that his ears be clipped by the common hangman, and that he remain in prison for three years—God save the Queen!"

Then occurred a startling interruption, the prisoner spoke.

"I am guilty of assault, my Lord," he cried, "but, before God and High Heaven, I am no conspirator; I, also, cry God save the Queen!"

Then he sat down.

All was over, the dread sentence had been pronounced, and forthwith the warders proceeded to lead the prisoner from the dock.

The crowd departed, and in a few minutes the Star Chamber was untenanted save by a few warders.

The terrible news had spread abroad and seditious cries, mingled with oaths and execrations, rent the air.

The judges and King Philip had departed by private exits, but as the Pursuivant and his men reached the street a fierce contest between the military and the 'prentices arose.

Great stones hurtled through the air, and the clubs of the "City Boys" made fine play with the swords and rapiers of the halberdiers.

But the Household Guards, on their strong Flemish horses, swept all before them, and closing in a dense body around the Pursuivant, conveyed him to a place of safety.

As Sir John Jefferay and his nephew William were about to leave the Court, an usher brought him a note.

"From his Excellency the Spanish Ambassador," said the man.

Turning to the friends who accompanied him, Sir John said—

"Await me one moment, my friends."

Then he drew William with him into one of the waiting-rooms of the Court, and eagerly opened the note. It was brief.

"An hour hence I shall be with you at Gray's Inn, and the Cardinal will be with me. His Eminence wishes that no other person be present at our interview.—Renard."

"Oh, thank God, thank God!" cried Sir John, as he passed the letter to William.

It was light amid the darkness, and the Treasurers noble face lost its look of despair and flushed with joy and hope!

And well might it be so, for these two men, of all others in the realm of England, possessed influence with Mary and Philip of high and exalted nature.

"No word of this to our friends," whispered Sir John to his nephew, as they proceeded to rejoin them.

At this moment the roar from the street reached the little group, and they halted.

Instantly it flashed upon the Treasurer's mind that it might derange all their plans if he and William were to be acclaimed by a wild, disorderly mob.

"Adieu, my friends," he said to those who surrounded them, "it is necessary that we part here; William and I will return through the Abbey. We meet again to-night at Gray's Inn, to supper."

All saw the wisdom of this, and Sir Philip Broke, noting the flush of hope in Sir John's face, whispered to him—

"You have news—something to cheer our hearts?"

"To-night you shall know all, I trust, but now depart, I pray you!"

Then grasping his hand he shook it warmly.

"Farewell for the present, best and truest of friends," he said; then turning to William, "Follow me, nephew," he said.

All the cloisters of Westminster were known to Sir John, and soon, by many an ancient and devious way, the two were in the Abbey.

Ah, how its glorious quietude contrasted with the scene in the Star Chamber, with the tumult of the streets!

A strange peace took possession of Sir John's soul as he gazed into the semi-darkness of the Chapel of King Edward the Confessor, where, over the altar, gleamed a dull red light.

Sir John was no Romanist—nay, he was a somewhat ardent follower of Luther!

But it was no hour to think upon mysteries and niceties.

"Come with me, my dear nephew," he said.

And under his guidance William in a moment found himself kneeling by his uncle's side in front of the glorious altar of King Edward's Chapel. Long they knelt in fervent prayer, commending the condemned prisoner to the mercy of Almighty God, and beseeching His blessing on the steps they were taking on his behalf.

Then, comforted and refreshed, they rose and made their way towards Whitehall and Gray's Inn.