Yes, he was bound to say he sympathized with the prisoner (he did not say that he wished to Heaven the prisoner had availed himself of many opportunities he had given him of escaping); he thought he had been hardly treated--especially by the woman who was, in truth, a viper.

Did he mean to say, the judge asked almost apologetically, that he had allowed the prisoner to ride unbound by his side? Yes, he did mean to say so; the prisoner had made no attempt, either, to take advantage of the license. Did Monsieur de Mortemart think that was wise on his part as an officer? Yes, on his part as an officer he did think so. He _was_ an officer; not"--and here he cast his eye on the turnkeys and jailers in the court"--"the _canaille_." And, in effect, the prisoner was before the court; that justified him.

After this the judges ceased to ask the Duc de Mortemart's son any further questions, but went on with other matters. One of the _canaille_, a jailer, was put on the witness stand and questioned briefly. "Speak, fellow," said the president in a totally different tone from that which he had hitherto used to the duke's son, "have you examined the prisoner--is he branded?"

"He is, my lord, on his shoulder; an undoubted _galerien_."

"Enough! Stand down."

"Prisoner," addressing St. Georges, "what have you to say?"

"Nothing. Do your worst."

"No justification of your quitting the galleys?"

"Nothing that you would accept as such. Yet this I will say: I did not escape of my own attempt; the galley I was in was sunk by an English admiral off their coast; almost all were lost. I was saved and taken back to England."

"So! That may make a difference. What was the galley's name?"

"L'Idole."

Here the judge on the president's right hand leaned over to him and said: "This may be the truth. I had a nephew, an officer, on board L'Idole--she was sunk."

"Allowing such to be the case, prisoner, how comes it you are back in France?"

"I desired to return, and took the first opportunity."

"Ay, he did," suddenly roared out a voice in the court. "And ask him how he returned, my lord; ask him that!"

In an instant all eyes were turned to the place whence the sound came, and the presiding judge became scarlet in the face at any one having the presumption to so bawl at him in the court. "Exempts," he cried, "find out the ruffian who dares to outrage the king's justice by bellowing before us thus. Find him out, I say, and bring him before us!"

It required, however, very little "finding out," since he who had so cried was the man whom the _procureur_ du Roi had spoken of as having abandoned his ship at La Hogue and fled to Paris, and was now present as a prisoner in the court to be tried for his offence. Nor was there much need to hustle and drag him forward, since he came willingly enough--he thought he saw here an immunity from punishment--if punishment be deserved--a chance of escape by the evidence he could give.

"Who is the fellow?" asked De Rennie, when, partly by the man's own willing efforts and partly by pushings and jostlings, he had been got on to the witness stand with two jailers on either side of him. "Who is he?"

"He is, my lord," the _procureur du roi_ said, "the man who is charged with deserting his ship at La Hogue and fleeing to Paris. He says, however, he can give evidence against the _galerien_ here which will also go far to absolve him of his desertion--if your lordships will hear him."

"Ay," said De Rennie, "we will hear him very willingly. But," he said, addressing the sailor, "tell no lies, fellow, in hope of escaping your own punishment. Understand that! And understand, also, that you must justify your own desertion."

"I need tell no lies," the man replied, a rough, bull faced and throated man, with every mark of a seaman about him, "to justify myself. And there was no desertion. _Mon Dieu!_ was Tourville a deserter when he went ash.o.r.e from L'Ambitieux? If so, then I am one, for I went with him."

"Tell your tale," De Rennie exclaimed angrily, the man's utter want of respect irritating him, "and speak no slander against the king's officers."

"Slander!" the sailor repeated--"slander! How slander? I am Tourville's own c.o.xswain; acted under his orders----"

"Go on!" roared the judge. "Your evidence against the prisoner. Your evidence!"

Briefly the man's evidence was this--and as he told it all in the court knew that the fate of the prisoner was sealed. After that nothing could save him.

The man _was_ Tourville's c.o.xswain--he produced a filthy, water-soaked paper from his breast to prove it--had been with him in Le Soleil Royal, had gone with the admiral when he transferred his flag to L'Ambitieux, had taken that flag from the lieutenant's hands and, with his own, hauled it up on the latter vessel.

"But," continued the man, "it was not for long. The English had got us in shoal water, their fireships and attenders came at us and burned us; their boarding parties came in two hundred boats--we could do nothing after the first resistance! And among those boarding parties"--and he lifted his finger and pointed at the prisoner in the dock--"was one in command of that man--that, standing there in the dock."

"Fellow!" exclaimed the judge, "this is a Frenchman. Beware!--no lies."

"I tell no lies. It is the truth. Ask him. He was on the deck of L'Ambitieux with a dozen other boat crews; we could not resist; their whole fleet came over our sides; the admiral and I left in the same boat, he bade us all save ourselves, gave us our freedom, disbanded us. Send for him, ask him if I am a deserter. Ask, too, that man, if he fought not against us on the English side."

"You hear," De Rennie said, looking toward St. Georges, "the charge against you--that you, a Frenchman, fought on the English side against your country. Answer the court, is it true?"

With all eyes turned on him--the pitying eyes of De Mortemart, the scowling eyes of the judges, and the vindictive eyes of most people in the court, who, having been hitherto inclined to sympathize with the prisoner, now only thirsted for his death--St. Georges drew himself up and faced his inquirer. Then, a moment later, he said: "It is true."

Those words were the signal for an indescribable hubbub in the court.

Men muttered fiercely, "Burn him, burn him!" women shrieked to one another that no wonder the English devils had beaten France when Frenchmen fought on their side, forgetting the mothers that bore them; and De Mortemart, muttering between white lips: "My G.o.d! nothing can save him," left the court. The c.o.xswain, too, who but a quarter of an hour before had heard hissed in his ears the words "_lache_,"

"_deserteur_," "_miserable_," and other epithets, was now the centre of a group of turnkeys and exempts, all asking him why he had not told them before that he was a hero?

Meanwhile the _procureur du roi_, arrayed in his scarlet gown, sat at his table arranging his papers--there would be no further trials that day, he knew, the Jansenists and others would have to wait--and glancing up now and again at the other three scarlet-robed figures on the bench, conferring with their heads close together. Presently, however, a nod from De Rennie to the _greffier_ caused that official to bawl out orders for silence in the court, and forced the muttering men and shrieking women to hold their tongues. They did so, willingly enough, too; they knew what was coming.

"Are your lordships prepared to deliver judgment?" asked the _procureur du roi_, carrying out the usual formula and pushing his papers away and rising as he addressed them.

"We are prepared," the president replied.

"I pray your lordships do so."

"The sentence of the court is that the prisoner be taken to the Hotel de Ville, and from there to the Place de Greve, and there broken on the wheel till he is dead."

More murmurings, more exclamations from the nervous, excited crowd, and then a hush, while again the _procureur's_ voice was heard:

"I pray your lordships to appoint a day and hour on which your righteous sentence shall be carried out."

"The decree of the court is that the sentence be carried out at the daybreak following the time when forty-eight hours shall have elapsed from now."

"In the name of justice I thank your lordships.--Prisoner," and the _procureur_ turned to him, "you hear and understand your sentence?"

"Yes, I hear and understand it."

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

THE LAST CHANCE.

Outside the court all was sunshine and brightness on that June evening, and all the people streaming out in the warm air--that yet seemed fresh and cool after the stuffiness within--chattered and laughed and chuckled at the exciting day they had had.

"For, _figurez vous_," said one, a hideous creature, "when we went to see the marchioness tried we could only hope she would be condemned, though all the while we know well that for the _n.o.blesse_ there is no serious punishment. _Ma foi!_ what a punishment! Twenty pistoles--a sum she pays weekly, I'll be sworn, for absolution--and a _retraite_ from Paris for a year. _Tiens!_ she was not ill favoured, that marchioness; she will doubtless have a score of lovers follow her into the country. Say, Babette," and she turned to a pale-faced girl by her side, "shall we go to the Place de Greve to see that villain broken?

Daybreak, after forty-eight hours; that will be daybreak on Monday.

To-day is Friday!"

"Not I," the pale-faced girl replied. "For my part I could pity him--only that he fought against France. _Il etait beau, cet homme la bas._ His mustache was enough to set a girl dreaming. And his eyes!