William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

Hundreds of faces stared at him in amazement—and in silence.
    “Perhaps if you lived in some of the German states,” he went on, his voice now raw with sadness, “and could remember the armies marching in the streets a decade ago, see the people manning the barricades as suddenly hope flared that we too might have the liberties you take so lightly, and then afterwards see the dead, and the hope ended in despair, all the promises broken, you would be prepared to fight to keep the small privileges Felzburg has.” He leaned forward. “And in memory of those who fought and died elsewhere, you would offer your life too, for your children and your children’s children … or even just for your country, your friends, for the future, whether you see them, know them, or not, simply because you believe in these things.”
    The silence prickled in the ears.
    “Bravo!” someone cried from the gallery. “Bravo, sir!”
    “Bravo!” A dozen more shouted, and they began to stand up one by one, then a dozen, then a score, hands held up, faces alight with emotion. “Bravo!”
    “God save the Queen!” a woman called out, and another echoed her.
    The judge did not bang his gavel or make the slightest attempt to restore order. He allowed it to run its course and subside on its own. Once watched, the wave of passion had spent itself, emotion had passed.
    “Mr. Harvester?” he said inquiringly. “Have you further points to ask of Baron von Emden?”
    Harvester’s face was puzzled and unhappy. Obviously, Stephan’s evidence had opened up a vehemence the lawyerhad not foreseen. The issue had ceased to be political in any dry and objective sense and became a thing of raging urgency which touched everyone. The emotional balance had been altered irrevocably. He was not yet sure where it would lead.
    “No, my lord, thank you,” he answered. “I think the Baron has demonstrated most admirably that feelings ran very high during the meeting at Wellborough Hall, and many may have believed that the fate of a nation hung on the return, or not, of Prince Friedrich.” He shook his head. “None of which has the slightest relevance to the Countess Rostova’s accusation against Princess Gisela and its demonstrable untruth.” He looked for a moment towards Rathbone, and then returned to his seat.
    It was perfectly timed. Rathbone knew it as well as Harvester did. He had not defended Zorah from the charge of slander, he had not even defended her from the unspoken charge of murder. If anything, Stephan might unwittingly have made things worse. He had shown how very much was at stake and sworn that Zorah believed in independence. She could never have wished Friedrich dead, but she might very easily have tried to kill Gisela and counted it an act of supreme patriotism. That was now believable to everyone in the room.
    “What the devil are you doing, Rathbone?” Harvester demanded as they passed each other when leaving for the luncheon adjournment. He looked confused. “Your client is as likely to be guilty of a mistake in victim as anybody.” His voice dropped in genuine concern. “Are you sure she is sane? In her own interests, can you not prevail upon her to withdraw? The court will pursue the truth now, whatever she says or does. At least protect her by persuading her to keep silent, before she incriminates herself … and, incidentally, drags you down with her. You have too many rogue witnesses, Rathbone.”
    “I have a rogue case,” Rathbone agreed ruefully, falling into step with Harvester.
    “I can imagine the Lord Chancellor’s face!” Harvester skirted around a group of clerks in intense discussion and rejoined Rathbone as they went down the steps into the raw, late October wind.
    “So can I.” Rathbone meant it only too truthfully. “But I have no alternative. She is adamant that Gisela killed him, and short of abandoning the case, for which I have no grounds, I have to follow her instructions.”
    Harvester shook his head. “I’m sorry.” It was commiseration, not apology. He would not stay his hand, nor would Rathbone had their roles been reversed, as he profoundly wished they were.
    When they returned in the afternoon, Rathbone called Klaus von Seidlitz, who was obliged to substantiate what Stephan had said. He was reluctant to concede it at first, but he could not deny that he was for unification. When Rathbone pressed him, he argued the case against war and its destruction, and his large, crooked