the spot where there was most light, a pale and terrible form lay extended on the ground. It was lying on its back; a head was visible, the eyes of which were shut; also a body, the chest of which was a shapeless mass. The four limbs belonging to the body were drawn towards the four pillars by four chains fastened to each foot and each hand in the position of the cross of Saint Andrew. These chains were fastened to an iron ring at the base of each column. The form was thus held immovable, in the horrible position of being quartered, and had the icy look of a livid corpse. It was naked. It was a man.
Gwynplaine stood at the top of the stairs as if petrified, looking down. Suddenly he heard a rattle in the throat. The corpse was alive.
Close to the spectre, in one of the arches, on each side of a tall chair placed on a large flat stone, stood two men enveloped in long black cloaks; and in the chair sat an old man, dressed in a red robe, pale, motionless, and austere, holding a bunch of roses in his hand. The bunch of roses would have enlightened any one less ignorant than Gwynplaine. The right of judging with a nosegay in his hand implied the holder to be both a royal and municipal magistrate. The Lord Mayor of London still keeps up the custom. To assist the deliberations of the judges was the function of the earliest roses of the season.
The old man seated in the chair was the sheriff of the county of Surrey. His was the majestic rigidity of a Roman dignitary. The chair was the only seat in the cell. Beside it was a table covered with papers and books, on which lay the long white wand of the sheriff. The men standing by the side of the sheriff were two doctors, one of medicine, the other of law; the latter recognizable by the serjeant's coif over his wig. Both wore black robes,—one of the shape worn by judges,
