The latter was rendered impossible by the council of the Confederation, and the few who cherished the design in the council's despite, had attempted an _emeute_ the night previous, and were beaten and placed _hors de combat_.

As Monahan and his retainers entered, the red face of Lefroy oozed through the bench curtains, and followed by the pale Moore, "the court was seated." As yet the dock was empty, save that the jailor of Newgate and his deputy occupied each a corner.
There was a dead silence.
"Jailor, put forward John Mitchel," said the official, whose duty is to make such orders.
A grating of bolts--a rustling of chains, were heard behind.

The low door-way at the back of the dock opened, and between turnkeys Mitchel entered.
Ascending the steps to the front of the dock, and lifting, as he advanced, the glazed dark cap he wore during his imprisonment, as gracefully as if he entered a drawing-room, he took his stand in a firm but easy attitude.

His appearance was equally removed from bravado and fear.

His features, usually placid and pale, had a rigid clearness about them that day we can never forget.