Chief Justice Jeffreys sat alone in his lodging at Wells.

The long sitting in court was over. All day he had stormed and bullied, reducing prisoners and advocates alike, and even his brothers on the bench, to a state of terrified submission. He had poured forth abuse on the heads of timorous witnesses, cracked his jests and thundered his threats at the miserable victims of the law's severity. He had sworn, wrangled, and blustered, and now he was alone.

The wearying journey, the tedious days of work, the long nights of carouse, above all the unrestrained passions in which he daily indulged had conduced to the inevitable result; on his arrival in Wells his malady had become greatly aggravated, and his physicians had urged on him the absolute necessity of quiet and abstinence. Accordingly to-night he followed their advice; the officers and other jovial gentlemen who formed his escort feasted apart, and, sick in body, weary in mind, he sat alone.

And as he sat there in all the luxury of his surroundings, despite his high position, despite his success, despite his wealth, power, and influence, 'twould have been hard to find in all the length and breadth of the kingdom a more wretched man than George Jeffreys, lord chief justice of England, lord chancellor elect.

For the man was cursed with a double curse, and the burden of his life seemed at times too heavy to be borne. Cursed with an ambition which would not let him rest, which ever urged him to new struggles, new extravagances, new ventures, and contrariwise cursed with a sensitiveness, a cowardice that made each step in the path of his career an added terror to his brain, each rough encounter a fresh misery, each rebuff a stinging agony.

The mainspring of his character was an overweening vanity. He must be first of his company, he must, by whatever means offered, rise to the highest; but on the other hand he could brook no opposition, a taunt or a rebuke was torture to him, a threat a terror that moved him at times to tears. The rebuffs and sneers which to a braver nature appear but the natural pricks of life, were to him a veritable torment from which he shrank with all the horror of a keenly sensitive soul. While his ambitious vanity drove him to assume airs of overweening insolence, to bully and overawe all who came before him, to delight to see men shrink and tremble at his words; yet if he met with opposition, his haughty mien vanished in a burst of childish passion, and if he found his aims thwarted he became reduced to a state of helpless misery.

Thus his ambition drove him into a struggle with the world, but the very enmity and hatred naturally evoked were to him the source of misery unspeakable.

Such was the man who had elected to climb the highest rung of the ladder. Verily he paid his price.

As he sat alone, forced no longer to wear his mask, to preserve an air of proud assurance and command, the reflection of his thoughts played across his face, and 'twas a bitter tale to read. His brows frowned in pain and perplexity, his lips twitched nervously, and in his eyes lurked a look as of one cowering beneath an ever-present dread. He leaned weariedly back in his chair, his hands idly resting on its arms, his face drawn with suffering.

On the table before him lay many letters from friends of the prisoners he had recently condemned, heart-rending pleas for mercy, despairing appeals for a mitigation, however slight, of the agonising sentences he had pronounced; and among them was a letter from his father, the old man whom still in spite of all he respected and in his own way loved, a letter entreating him to show pity in his judgments, threatening to disown him should he still persist in his bloody methods. And Jeffreys himself, save in his outbursts of rage, was not a cruel man, and took little enough delight in his brutal task. Still he had no choice. For the King's commands had been absolute; no mercy must be shown and the King's commands he dared not disobey.

And in addition to these commands, apart from his hope to win by his zealous service the office of lord chancellor, there was jet another reason, more poignant than all, why he dared show no mercy to those associated with the late rebellion; why, if he could have had his own way, every man who had so much as looked at Duke Monmouth should be put to death.

For he himself, in one of those sudden fits of alarm which formed the cause in him of so much double-dealing, had intrigued secretly with Monmouth, and the haunting fear of discovery had sent him down into the west like a savage beast of prey, panting to sweep from sight all traces of rebellion, striving to prove, by the very ferocity of his judgments, his loyalty to the King and his repugnance of the course of his enemies. So he was driven, by the very desperation of his ambition, to win for himself a hatred and contempt that almost broke his heart.

And to-night, as he sat alone, he wondered wearily whether the struggle was worth the torture it created, and his heart cried to him to give up the contest, resign his office, and in retirement find rest for his suffering body, and peace for his weary soul. So spake his heart, and he longed for determination to follow its dictates. Yet he knew too well the while that peace was not for him, for the curse of Lucifer was upon him, and so long as there remained power to strive for, or enemies to overthrow, so long must he struggle on in misery, until death should bring to him the only rest such as he may ever know.

He was interrupted in his musings by the entrance of his secretary, Master Stephen Jewars. Perturbed and anxious the man hurried into the room, and after a moment's pause advanced to his master's side.

"My lord," he began nervously, "there is an officer without, asking to see your lordship."

Jeffreys moved impatiently.

"Not to-night, Jewars," he said sharply; "I will see no one to-night. His business will wait."

"Pardon, my lord, even so I answered him, but he declares his business will not wait. Moreover, 'tis a matter of the most absolute importance, so he states, that he see you."

"Devil take you!" cried Jeffreys angrily. "Why, fellow, have you not heard the same tale ten thousand times of late? 'Tis another o' these petitioners, I'll warrant. I will not see him."

A moment the secretary hesitated. Then he stooped over his master and said in a low, cautious tone:

"My lord, it may be I am mistaken, but—methinks the man knows something."

Jeffreys started.

"What mean you, fellow?" he asked quickly. "What does he say?"

"Nay, my lord, 'tis mostly by his manner I judge it, for he demands to see your lordship as tho' 'tis nought to him yet for your sake 'twere wise. And then also his words—for he claims to have information concerning an intrigue with the late Duke, an intrigue which may not astonish your lordship as much as most folk, yet 'twill be of greater moment to your lordship to be the first to hear on't."

"Tut!" cried Jeffreys nervously. "Any man might say that."

"Aye, my lord, any man might say it, but an I be any judge of men, this man hath meaning in his words."

Jeffreys was silent.

"Well, well, Jewars," he said after a pause; "I will see the man. But not alone. You will remain in the room, and look you, have an escort ready at hand, lest the man must be—lest he prove an impostor."

"Very good, my lord," answered Jewars with a sigh of relief. "I will bring him in at once."

Two minutes later he ushered Captain Protheroe into the judge's presence.

At sight of his visitor Jeffreys started, and eyeing him sharply for a moment, rapped out a fierce oath.

"What's this!" he cried. "What do you here? How dare you come here? I know you, fellow, I know your face well."

"'Tis possible," answered the other coolly. "I have been frequently before your lordship—er—unofficially. I was one of Colonel Kirke's officers."

"Truly, you do well to say was," shouted Jeffreys angrily. "I mind you well, sir. You are he who was committed at Taunton and who afterwards escaped. I have not forgot you, sir."

"Indeed! I congratulate your lordship upon an excellent memory," was the cool reply.

"Zounds! Jewars. What is the fellow here for?" blustered the judge. "A condemned rebel! A traitor! Call in the guard."

"Nay, my lord," interrupted Captain Protheroe quietly. "I have that to say to your lordship of the deepest import. You will do well to hear me out. The guard afterwards—an you will."

Jeffreys eyed him, frowning.

"You are a cool fellow," he muttered. "Have a care, sir, have a care. Do not trifle with me. Your life is not worth one——"

"I am aware of that fact, my lord," he interrupted coolly. "Judge then whether the business which led me to place myself in your power be likely to be of import or no. Indeed, my lord, you will do well to hear me."

For a moment the judge hesitated, trying to outfrown the officer's cool glance, but finding here was a different man from those whom he was accustomed to bully in the law courts, he submitted with a bad grace to the demand.

"Well! Well! say what you desire, sir; but look you, waste no time."

"I have no desire to do so, my lord. In fact waste of time were more fatal to me than ever it could be inconvenient to your lordship. Briefly then, I am here to give your lordship an opportunity of exercising mercy."

Judge Jeffreys stared for a moment in amazement, then dropped his fist upon the table with a fierce oath.

"Mercy! Mercy!" he shouted. "And have you dared, fellow, to force your way into my presence, to interrupt my rest, solely to beg for mercy on your miserable life. Have you indeed so dared, fellow?"

"My name is Protheroe, since it seems to have escaped your lordship's otherwise excellent memory," was the cool reply. "But indeed I certainly have not intruded on your seclusion merely to beg so slight a thing as my pardon. 'Tis a most wide-reaching exercise of mercy I offer your lordship, the release of four rebels at least."

Jeffreys sprang to his feet, trembling with fury, and roared out a torrent of oaths that startled even the accustomed ears of his hearer. But Captain Protheroe did not change a tittle of his cool, resolute mien. He knew his man, and knew well that the only way to master such as he was to meet insolence with insolence, and rage with cool contempt.

"To the guardhouse with the insolent fellow," shouted Jeffreys, glaring with passion. "Away with him!"

"You forget, my lord," shouted the officer, endeavouring vainly to win a hearing; "I do not come empty-handed, I bring my price."

But the Judge was beside himself with fury, and Captain Protheroe had hardly escaped immediate arrest, had not the secretary stepped quickly forward and whispered a few words in his master's ear. At first he could gain no attention, but gradually the storm subsided, the judge's fury wavered before the calm indifference of the soldier, and after a moment's silence he submitted sulkily to his secretary's persuasion.

"Well! Well! Jewars. I will hear him," he muttered. "Look you, sir, say clearly what has brought you here. You claim to have information to give. What is it? What have you to offer?"

"Two letters, my lord."

"Letters!" The judge started forward, grasping the table with his hands, his eyes glaring at the officer. "Letters, say you?"

"Aye, my lord," answered the officer nonchalantly. "Certain letters of your lordship's own hand, which have come into my possession. They are, I venture to believe, a most sufficient guarantee for my trust in your clemency."

Jeffreys dropped his hands and fell back into his chair, his eyes fixed on the speaker with horrible intensity. His fingers moved nervously and his lips twitched. Jewars touched him on the shoulder, and with a start he recovered himself.

"Show me the letters!" he snarled abruptly.

Captain Protheroe drew the papers from his breast, and handed them across the table. He was purposely deliberate in his movements, revelling in the anxiety of the judge's face.

There was a dead silence in the room while Judge Jeffreys perused the letters. He bent his head low over the paper, therefore his face was hidden from the officer, who waited breathless for the pronouncement upon the contents.

At length after a long pause, the judge raised his head.

His face was calm, his voice as usual loud and raucous.

He eyed the officer firmly.

"These"—he said slowly, tapping the papers—"these are forgeries."

A sudden cold chill crept round Captain Protheroe's heart. He stared at the judge in amazement, in slowly rising despair.

"Forgeries, sir," said Jeffreys again coldly. "Have you no more to say?"

But even while he spake, Captain Protheroe noted, though the face and voice were calm, yet the hand which held the letter trembled till the paper shook like an aspen leaf. He noted this, and took fresh courage from the sight.

"Pardon me, my lord," he drawled politely; "not forgeries, but—er—copies."

The judge glared at him.

"Copies," he cried sharply. "Then where are the originals! Show them to me?"

"Indeed, my lord, you underrate my very high opinion of your lordship's—er—ingenuity, if you deem I have brought the originals with me," answered the captain with the same slow politeness. "They are in safe-keeping elsewhere."

Jeffreys swore under his breath. Then he turned to the officer with a scornful laugh.

"And you dream, by these letters, you can prove me traitor, eh?" he asked mockingly.

"Certainly not, my lord, if your lordship can prove your innocence," was the cool answer.

There was silence. The two men eyed one another defiantly. Then Jeffreys laid down the letters, and leaned across the table.

"You are a fool, sir," he said sharply, "an you think to reap any advantage from these letters. I tell you the plain truth. I have intrigued with Monmouth, but solely that by gaining his confidence, I might prove of greater assistance to his Majesty."

"Indeed, my lord, I never held so low an opinion of you as to suppose you would confine your treachery to one party only," answered Captain Protheroe insolently. But his heart beat quickly, for he liked not the suggestion in the judge's words.

"Have a care, sir," shouted Jeffreys angrily. "Recollect you are in my power."

"With reservations, my lord. For, if I join not my friends within two hours, the originals of these letters will, before to-morrow night, be in the hands of one likely to take a deeper interest in the matter than your lordship seems to do."

"Devil damn you, fellow! Have I not told you wherefore these letters were writ?"