The Deemster in the half-lit Court-house was passing sentence.

“Prisoner,” he said, “you have been found guilty by a jury of your countrymen of one of the cruellest of the crimes of imposture.  You have deceived the ignorant, betrayed the unwary, lied to the simple, and robbed the poor.  You have built your life upon a lie, and in your old age it brings you to confusion.  In ruder times than ours your offence would have worn another complexion; it would have been called witchcraft, not imposture, and your doom would have been death.  The sentence of the court is that you be committed to the Castle Rushen for the term of one year.”

Black Tom, who had stood during the Deemster’s sentence with his bald head bent, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and leaving marks on his face, recovered his self-conceit as he was being hustled out of court.

“You’re right, Dempster,” he cried.  “Witchcraft isn’t worth nothing now.  Religion’s the only roguery that’s going these days.  Your friend Caesar was wise, sir.  Bes’ re-spec’s to him, Dempster, and may you live up to your own tex’ yourself, too.”

“If my industry and integrity,” said a solemn voice at the door ­“and what’s it saying in Scripture? ­’If any provide not for his own house he is worse than an infidel.’  But the Lord is my shield.  What for should I defend myself?  I am a worm and no man, saith the Psalms.”

“The Psalms is about right then, Caesar,” shouted Black Tom from between two constables.

In the commotion that followed on the prisoner’s noisy removal, the Clerk of the Court was heard to speak to the Deemster.  There was another case just come in ­attempted suicide ­woman tried to fling herself into the harbour ­been prevented ­would his Honour take it now, or let it stand over for the High Bailiff’s court.

“We’ll take it now,” said the Deemster.  “We may dismiss her in a moment, poor creature.”

The woman was brought in.  She was less like a human creature than like a heap of half-drenched clothes.  A cloak which looked black with the water that soaked it at the hood covered her body and head.  Her face seemed to be black also, for a veil which she wore was wet, and clung to her features like a glove.  Some of the people in court recognised her figure even in the uncertain candlelight.  She was the woman who had been seen to come into the town during the hour of the court’s adjournment.

Half helped, half dragged by constables, she entered the prisoner’s dock.  There she clutched the bar before her as if to keep herself from falling.  Her head was bent down between her shrinking shoulders as if she were going through the agony of shame and degradation.

“The woman shouldn’t have been brought here like this ­quick, be quick,” said the Deemster.

The evidence was brief.  One of the constables being on duty in the market-place had heard screams from the quay.  On reaching the place, he had found the harbour-master carrying a woman up the quay steps.  Mr. Quarry, coming out of the harbour office, had seen a woman go by like the wind.  A moment afterwards he had heard a cry, and had run to the second steps.  The woman had been caught by a boathook in attempting to get into the water.  She was struggling to drown herself.

The Deemster watched the prisoner intently.  “Is anything known about her?” he asked.

The clerk answered that she appeared to be a stranger, but she would give no information.  Then the sergeant of police stepped up to the dock.  In emphatic tones the big little person asked the woman various questions.  What was her name?  No answer.  Where did she come from?  No answer.  What was she doing in Ramsey?  Still no answer.

“Your Honour,” said the sergeant, “doubtless this is one of the human wrecks that come drifting to our shores in the summer season.  The poorest of them are often unable to get away when the season is over, and so wander over the island, a pest and a burden to every place they set foot in.”

Then, turning back to the figure crouching in the dock, he said, “Woman, are you a street-walker?”

The woman gave a piteous cry, let go her hold of the bar, sank back to the seat behind her, brushed up the wet black veil, and covered her face with her hands.

“Sit down this instant, Mr. Gawne,” said the Deemster hotly, and there was a murmur of approval from behind.  “We must not keep this woman a moment longer.”

He rose, leaned across to the rail in front, clasped his hands before him, looked down at the woman in the dock, and said in a low tone, that would have been barely loud enough to reach her ears but for the silence, as of a tomb, in the court, “My poor woman, is there anybody who can answer for you?”

The prisoner stooped her head lower and began to cry.

“When a woman is so unhappy as to try to take her life, it sometimes occurs, only too sadly, that another is partly to blame for the condition that tempts her to the crime.”

The Deemster’s voice was as soft as a caress.

“If there is such a one in this case, we ought to learn it.  He ought to stand by your side.  It is only right; it is only just.  Is there anybody here who knows you?”

The prisoner was now crying piteously.

“Ah! we mean no harm to any one.  It is in the nature of woman, however low she may sink, however deep her misfortunes, to shield her dearest enemy.  That is the brave impulse of the weakest among women, and all good men respect it.  But the law has its duty, and in this instance it is one of mercy.”

The woman moaned audibly.

“Don’t be afraid, my poor girl.  Nobody shall harm you here.  Take courage and look around.  Is there anybody in court who can speak for you ­who can tell us how you came to the place where you are now standing?”

The woman let fall her hands, raised her head, and looked up at the Deemster, face to face and eye to eye.

“Yes,” she said, “there is one.”

The Deemster’s countenance became pale, his eyes glistened, his look wandered, his lips trembled ­he was biting them, they were bleeding.

“Remove her in custody,” he muttered; “let her be well cared for.”

There was a tumult in a moment.  Everybody had recognised the prisoner as she was being taken out, though shame and privation had so altered her.  “Peter Quilliam’s wife!” ­“Caesar Cregeen’s daughter ­where’s the man himself?” ­“Then it’s truth they’re telling ­it’s not dead she is at all, but worse.” ­“Lor-a-massy!” ­“What a trouble for the Dempster!”

When Kate was gone, the court ought to have adjourned instantly, yet the Deemster remained in his seat.  There was a mist before his eyes which dazzled him.  He had a look at once wild and timid.  His limbs pained although they were swelling to enormous size.  He felt as if a heavy, invisible hand had been laid on the top of his head.

The clerk caught his eye, and then he rose with an apologetic air, took hold of the rail, and made an effort to cross the dais.  At the next moment his servant, Jem-y-Lord, had leapt up to his side, but he made an impatient gesture as if declining help.

There are three steps going down to the floor of the court, and a handrail on one side of them.  Coming to these steps, he stumbled, muttered some confused words, and fell forward on to his face.  The people were on their feet by this time, and there was a rush to the place.

“Stand back!  He has only fainted,” cried Jem-y-Lord.

“Worse than that,” said the sergeant.  “Get him to bed, and send for Dr. Mylechreest instantly.”

“Where can we take him?” said somebody.

“They keep a room for him at Elm Cottage,” said somebody else.

“No, not there,” said Jem-y-Lord.

“It’s nearest, and there’s no time to lose,” said the sergeant.

Then they lifted Philip, and carried him as he lay, in his wig and gown as Deemster, to the house of Pete.