the White Rabbit interrupted: “Unimportant, your Majesty means, of
course,” he said, in a very respectful tone, but frowning and
making faces at him as he spoke.
“Unimportant, of course, I meant,” the King hastily said, and
went on to himself in an under-tone,
“important—unimportant—unimportant—important——” as if he were
trying which word sounded best.
Some of the jury wrote it down “important,” and some
“unimportant.” Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look
over their slates; “but it doesn’t matter a bit,” she thought to
herself.
At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily
writing in his note-book, called out “Silence!”, and read out from
his book, “Rule Forty-two. All persons more than a mile high to
leave the court.”
Everybody looked at Alice.
“I’m not a mile high,” said Alice.
“You are,” said the King.
“Nearly two miles high,” added the Queen.
“Well, I sha’n’t go, at any rate,” said Alice: “besides, that’s
not a regular rule: you invented it just now.”
“It’s the oldest rule in the book,” said the King.
“Then it ought to be Number One,” said Alice.
The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. “Consider
your verdict,” he said to the jury, in a low trembling voice.
“There’s more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty,” said
the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry: “this paper has just
been picked up.”
“What’s in it?” said the Queen.
“I haven’t opened it yet,” said the White Rabbit; “but it seems
to be a letter, written by the prisoner to—to somebody.”
“It must have been that,” said the King, “unless it was written
to nobody, which isn’t usual, you know.”
“Who is it directed to?” said one of the jurymen.
“It isn’t directed at all,” said the White Rabbit: “in fact,
there’s nothing written on the outside.” He unfolded the paper as
he spoke, and added “It isn’t a letter, after all: it’s a set of
verses.”
“Are they in the prisoner’s handwriting?” asked another of the
jurymen.
“No, they’re not,” said the White Rabbit, “and that’s thejurymen.
“No, they’re not,” said the White Rabbit, “and that’s the
queerest thing about it.” (The jury all looked puzzled.)
“He must have imitated somebody else’s hand,” said the King.
(The jury all brightened up again.)
“Please your Majesty,” said the Knave, “I didn’t write it, and
they ca’n’t prove that I did: there’s no name signed at the
end.”
“If you didn’t sign it,” said the King, “that only makes the
matter worse. You must have meant some mischief, or else you’d have
signed your name like an honest man.”
There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first
really clever thing the King had said that day.
“That proves his guilt, of course,” said the Queen: “so, off
with——.”
“It doesn’t prove anything of the sort!” said Alice. “Why, you
don’t even know what they’re about!”
“Read them,” said the King.
The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. “Where shall I begin,
please your Majesty?” he asked.
“Begin at the beginning,” the King said, very gravely, “and go
on till you come to the end: then stop.”
There was dead silence in the court, whilst the White Rabbit
read out these verses:—
“They told me you had been to her,
And mentioned me to him:
She gave me a good character,
But said I could not swim.
He sent them word I had not gone
(We know it to be true):
If she should push the matter on,
What would become of you?
I gave her one, they gave him two,
You gave us three or more;
They all returned from him to you,
Though they were mine before.
If I or she should chance to be
Involved in this affair,
He trusts to you to set them free,
Exactly as we were.
My notion was that you had been
(Before she had this fit)
An obstacle that came between
Him, and ourselves, and it.
Don’t let him know she liked them best,
For this must ever be
A secret, kept from all the rest,
Between yourself and me.”
“That’s the most important piece of evidence we’ve heard yet,”
said the King, rubbing his hands; “so now let the jury——”
“If any one of them can explain it,” said Alice, (she had grown“If any one of them can explain it,” said Alice, (she had grown
so large in the last few minutes that she wasn't a bit afraid of
interrupting him,) “I’ll give him sixpence. I don't believe there’s
an atom of meaning in it.”
The jury all wrote down, on their slates, “She doesn’t believe
there’s an atom of meaning in it,” but none of them attempted to
explain the paper.
“If there’s no meaning in it,” said the King, “that saves a
world of trouble, you know, as we needn’t try to find any. And yet
I don’t know,” he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee,
and looking at them with one eye; “I seem to see some meaning in
them, after all. ‘—said I could not swim—’ you ca’n’t swim, can
you?” he added, turning to the Knave.
The Knave shook his head sadly. “Do I look like it?” he said.
(Which he certainly did not, being made entirely of cardboard.)
“All right, so far,” said the King; and he went on muttering
over the verses to himself: “‘We know it to be true’—that’s the
jury, of course—‘If she should push the matter on’—that must be the
Queen—‘What would become of you?’—What, indeed!—‘I gave her one,
they gave him two’—why, that must be what he did with the tarts,
you know——”
“But it goes on ‘they all returned from him to you,’” said
Alice.
“Why, there they are!” said the King triumphantly, pointing to
the tarts on the table. “Nothing can be clearer than that. Then
again—‘before she had this fit’—you never had fits, my dear, I
think?” he said to the Queen.
“Never!” said the Queen, furiously, throwing an inkstand at the
Lizard as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off
writing on his slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark;
but he now hastily began again, using the ink, that was trickling
down his face, as long as it lasted.)
“Then the words don’t fit you,” said the King, looking round the
court with a smile. There was a dead silence.
“It’s a pun!” the King added in an angry tone, and everybody
laughed. “Let the jury consider their verdict,” the King said, for