The matter is at an end," said Wellington, with a shrug, and immediately upon the words he rose, and the court rose with him.

Immediately, with rattle of sabres and sabretaches, the officers who had composed the board fell into groups and broke into conversation out of a spirit of consideration for Tremayne, and definitely to mark the conclusion of the proceedings.
Tremayne, white and trembling, turned in time to see Miss Armytage leaving the hall and assisting Colonel Grant to support Lady O'Moy, who was in a half-swooning condition.
He stood irresolute, prey to a torturing agony of mind, cursing himself now for his silence, for not having spoken the truth and taken the consequences together with Dick Butler.

What was Dick Butler to him, what was his own life to him--if they should demand it for the grave breach of duty he had committed by his readiness to assist a proscribed offender to escape--compared with the honour of Sylvia Armytage?
And she, why had she done this for him?
Could it be possible that she cared, that she was concerned so much for his life as to immolate her honour to deliver him from peril?
The event would seem to prove it.

Yet the overmastering joy that at any other time, and in any other circumstances, such a revelation must have procured him, was stifled now by his agonised concern for the injustice to which she had submitted herself.
And then, as he stood there, a suffering, bewildered man, came Carruthers to grasp his hand and in terms of warm friendship to express satisfaction at his acquittal.
"Sooner than have such a price as that paid--" he said bitterly, and with a shrug left his sentence unfinished.
O'Moy came stalking past him, pale-faced, with eyes that looked neither to right nor left.
"O'Moy!" he cried.
Sir Terence checked, and stood stiffly as if to attention, his handsome blue eyes blazing into the captain's own.

Thus a moment.