Bosengate pretended not to hear--he could not bear
that fellow!--and slowly wrote on a bit of paper: "Owen Lewis." Welsh!
Well, he looked it--not at all an English face. Attempted suicide--not
at all an English crime! Suicide implied surrender, a putting-up of
hands to Fate--to say nothing of the religious aspect of the matter. And
suicide in khaki seemed to Mr. Bosengate particularly abhorrent;
like turning tail in face of the enemy; almost meriting the fate of
a deserter. He looked at the prisoner, trying not to give way to this
prejudice. And the prisoner seemed to look at him, though this, perhaps,
was fancy.
The Counsel for the prosecution, a little, alert, grey, decided man,
above military age, began detailing the circumstances of the crime.
Mr. Bosengate, though not particularly sensitive to atmosphere, could
perceive a sort of current running through the Court. It was as if
jury and public were thinking rhythmically in obedience to the same
unexpressed prejudice of which he himself was conscious. Even the
Caesar-like pale face up there, presiding, seemed in its ironic serenity
responding to that current.
"Gentlemen of the jury, before I call my evidence, I direct your
attention to the bandage the accused is still wearing.
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