But he was not silent. His heart was full of indignation; and his lips mechanically gave utterance to it in a wild anathema against all forms and shapes of despotism.

More than ever did his heart thrill for the Republic; for he knew they were not its soldiers who surrounded him.

It was the first time he had experienced in his own person the bitterness of that irresponsible rule confined to the one-man power; and better than ever he now comprehended the heart-hatred of Roseveldt for priests, princes, and kings!

"It's plain the Republic's at an end here?" he muttered to himself after venting that anathema upon its enemies.

"_C'est vrai, monsieur_," said a voice, speaking from the interior of the cell. "_C'est fini_! It ends this day!"

Maynard started. He had believed himself alone.

"You French speak?" continued the voice. "_Vous etes Anglais_?"

"To your first question," answered Maynard, "Yes! To your second, No!

_Je suis Irlandais_!"

"_Irlandais_! For what have they brought you here? _Pardonnez-moi, monsieur_! I take the liberties of a fellow-prisoner." Maynard frankly gave the explanation.

"Ah! my friend," said the Frenchman, on hearing it, "you have nothing to fear then. With me it is different." A sigh could be heard closing the speech. "What do you mean, monsieur?" mechanically inquired Maynard.

"_You_ have not committed a crime?"

"Yes! A great crime--that of patriotism! I have been true to my country--to freedom. I am one of the compromised. My name is L--."

"L--!" cried the Irish-American, recognising a name well-known to the friends of freedom. "Is it possible? Is it you! My name is Maynard."

"_Mon Dieu_!" exclaimed his French fellow-prisoner. "I've heard of it!

I know you, sir!"

Amidst the darkness the two met in mutual embrace, mutually murmuring those cherished words, "_Vive la republique_!"

L--added, "_Rouge et democratique_!"

Maynard, though he did not go thus far, said nothing in dissent. It was not time to _split_ upon delicate distinctions!

"But what do you mean by speaking of your danger?" asked Maynard.

"Surely it has not come to this?"

"Do you hear those sounds?" The two stood listening.

"Yes. There is shouting outside--shots, too. That is the rattle of musketry. More distant, I hear guns--cannon. One might fancy an engagement!"

"It is!" gravely responded the Red Republican. "An engagement that will end in the annihilation of our freedom. You are listening to its death-knell--mine, too, I make no doubt of it."

Touched by the serious words of his fellow-captive, Maynard was turning to him for an explanation, when the door was suddenly thrown open, discovering a group outside it. They were officers in various uniforms--chiefly Zouaves and Chasseurs d'Afrique.

"He is in here," cried one of them, whom Maynard recognised as the ruffian Virocq.

"Bring him out, then!" commanded one with the strap of a colonel upon his shoulders. "Let his trial proceed at once!"

Maynard supposed it to be himself. He was mistaken. It was the man more noted than he--more dangerous to the aspirations of the Empire. It was L--.

A large drum stood in the open courtyard, with half a dozen chairs around it. On its head was an inkstand, pens, and paper. They were the symbols of a court-martial.

They were only used as shams. The paper was not stained with the record of that foul proceeding. The pen was not even dipped in the ink.

President and members, judge, advocate, and recorder, were all half-intoxicated. All demanded blood, and had determined on shedding it.

Of the trial, informal as it was, Maynard was not a spectator. The door had been re-closed upon him; and he stood listening behind it.

Not for long. Before ten minutes had elapsed, there came through the keyhole a simple word that told him his fellow-prisoner was condemned.

It was the word "_Coupable_!"

It was quick followed by a fearful phrase: "_Tires au moment_!" There were some words of remonstrance which Maynard could hear spoken by his late fellow-prisoner; among them the phrase, "_C'est un assassinat_!"

They were followed by a shuffling sound--the tread as of a troop hurrying into line. There was an interval of silence, like a lull in the resting storm. It was short--only for a few seconds.

It was broken by a shout that filled the whole court, though proceeding only from a single voice! It was that shout that had more than once driven a king from his throne; but was now to be the pretext for establishing an Empire!

"_Vive la republique rouge_!" were the last words of the heroic L--, as he bared his breast to the bullets of his assassins!

"_Tirez_!" cried a voice, which Maynard recognised as that of the sous-lieutenant Virocq; its echo around the walls overtaken and drowned by the deadly rattle it had invoked!

It was a strange time for exultation over such a dastardly deed. But that courtyard was filled with strange men. More like fiends were they as they waved their shakoes in air, answering the defiance of the fallen man with a cry that betokened the fall of France! "_Vive l'Empereur_!"

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

THE TWO FLAGS.

Listening inside his cell, hearing little of what was said, but comprehending all, Maynard had become half frantic.

The man he had so lately embraced--whose name he had long known and honoured--to be thus hurried out of the world like a condemned dog!

He began to believe himself dreaming!

But he had heard the protesting cry, "_C'est un assassinat_!"

He had repeated it himself striking his heels against the door in hopes of effecting a diversion or delay.

He kept repeating it, with other speeches, till his voice became drowned in the detonation of that death-dealing volley.

And once again he gave utterance to it after the echoes had ceased, and the courtyard became quiet. It was heard by the members of the court-martial outside.

"You've got a madman there!" said the presiding officer. "Who bit, Virocq?"

"One of the same," answered the sous-lieutenant of Zouaves. "A fellow as full of sedition as the one just disposed of."

"Do you know his name?"