Everywhere, except among the irreconcilables, the Jesuit was being well
spoken of: his eloquence, his humour, and his apparent sincerity were
being greatly commented on in London and elsewhere. Anthony, as has been
seen, was being deeply affected on both sides of his nature; the shrewd
wit of the other was in conflict with his own intellectual convictions,
and this magnetic personality was laying siege to his heart. And now the
last scene of the tragedy, more affecting than all, was close at hand.
Anthony was present first at the trial in Westminster Hall, which took
place during November, and was more than ever moved by what he saw and
heard there. The priest, as even his opponents confessed, had by now "won
a marvellously good report, to be such a man as his like was not to be
found, either for life, learning, or any other quality which might
beautify a man." And now here he stood at the bar, paler than ever, so
numbed with racking that he could not lift his hand to plead--that supple
musician's hand of his, once so skilful on the lute--so that Mr. Sherwin
had to lift it for him out of the furred cuff in which he had wrapped it,
kissing it tenderly as he did so, in reverence for its sufferings; and he
saw, too, the sleek face of Eliot, in his red yeoman's coat, as he stood
chatting at the back, like another Barabbas whom the people preferred to
the servant of the Crucified. And, above all, he heard Campion's stirring
defence, spoken in that same resonant sweet voice, though it broke now
and then through weakness, in spite of the unconquerable purpose and
cheerfulness that showed in his great brown eyes, and round his delicate
humorous mouth.
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