Mr. Kent looked at the tear-stained face; the untidy brown head
scarcely reached to the table, and the good magistrate thought, with
something like pain at his heart, of a fair-haired boy at home. So he
spoke kindly to the poor, trembling prisoner, and while he strongly
reprimanded, still encouraged him to better ways. The boy was removed,
and then Mr. Kent was puzzled by the prisoner who took his place.
A tall, handsome young man, apparently not more than twenty, with a
clear-cut aristocratic face, and luminous dark gray eyes. A face that no
one could look into without admiration--that irresistibly attracted man,
woman and child. He was a gentleman--there could be no mistake about it.
That clear-cut Norman face had descended to him from a long line of
ancestors; the well-built, manly figure, with its peculiar easy grace
and dignity told of ancient lineage and noble birth.
His hands were white, slender and strong, with almond-shaped
nails--hands that had never been soiled with labor, and surely never
stained with crime.
He carried his handsome head high; it was proudly set on a firm,
graceful neck, and covered with clusters of dark hair. He would have
looked in his place near the throne of a queen, or, on the back of a war
horse, leading a forlorn hope; but no one could understand his being
prisoner in a dock. Mr. Kent looked at him, wondering with what he was
charged. Surely, with that noble face and gentlemanly bearing, he had
never been guilty of a common assault.
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