The judge adjourned the court for luncheon, and Rathbone strode past Harvester and went immediately to the private room where he could speak to Zorah alone, almost dragging her with him, leaving the ugly mutters or grumbles of the crowd as the gallery was cleared.

"Gisela did not kill Friedrich," he said the moment the door was closed. "I have no evidence to make your charge even seem reasonable, let alone true! For heaven's sake, withdraw now. Admit you spoke out of emotion and were mistaken-"

"I was not mistaken," she said flatly, her green eyes calm and perfectly level. "I will not abandon the truth simply because it has become uncomfortable. I am surprised that you think I might. Is this the courage in the face of fire which earned you an empire?"

"Charging into the enemy's guns may make you a name in history," he said acidly. "But it is an idiotic sacrifice of life. It's all very poetic, but the reality is death, agony, crippled bodies and widows weeping at home, mothers who never see their sons again. It is more than time you stopped dreaming and looked at life as it is." He heard his voice growing higher and louder and he could not help it. He was clenching his fists until his muscles ached, and without being aware of it, he chopped his hand up and down in the air. "Did you not hear that letter? Didn't you look at the jurors' faces? Gisela is a heroine, the ideal of their romantic imagination! You have attacked her with a charge you cannot prove, and that makes you a villain. Nothing I can say is going to change that. If I counterattack it will make it worse."

She stood quite still, her face pale, her shoulders squared, her voice low and a little shaky.

"You give up too easily. We have barely begun. No sensible person makes a decision when he has heard only one side of a story. And sensible or not, the jury is obliged to wait and hear us as well. Is that not what the law is for, to allow both sides to put forward their case?"

"You have no case!" he shouted, then instantly regretted losing his self-control. It was undignified and served no purpose whatever. He should never have allowed himself to become so uncontrolled. "You have no case," he repeated in a calmer voice. 'The very best we can do is present evidence indicating that Friedrich was murdered by someone, but we cannot possibly prove it was Gisela! You will have to withdraw and apologize sooner or later, or suffer the full punishment the law may decide, and it may be very high indeed. You will lose your reputation..."

"Reputation." She laughed a little nervously. "Do you not think I have lost that already, Sir Oliver? All I have left now is what little money my family settled on me, and if she takes that, she is welcome. She cannot take my integrity or wit, or my beliefs."

Rathbone opened his mouth to argue, and then conceded the total pointlessness of it. She was not listening. Maybe she had never really listened to him.

"Then..." he began, and realized that what he was about to suggest was futile also.

"Yes?" she inquired.

He had been going to advise her to keep her bearing modest, but that would no doubt be a wasted request. It was not in her nature.

The first witness of the afternoon was Florent Barberini. Rathbone was curious to see him. He was extremely handsome in a Latin fashion, somewhat melodramatic for Rathbone's taste. He was inclined not to like the man.

"Were you at Wellborough Hall at the time of Prince Friedrich's death, Mr. Barberini?" Harvester began quite casually. He chose to use an English form of address, rather than the Italian or German forms.

"Yes, I was," Florent replied.

"Did you remain in England afterwards for some time?"

"No, I returned to Venice for Prince Friedrich's memorial service. I did not come back to England for about six months."

"You were devoted to Prince Friedrich?"

"I am Venetian. It is my home," he corrected.

Harvester was unruffled.

"But you did return to England?"

"Yes."

"Why, if Venice is your home?"

"Because I had heard word that the Countess Rostova had made an accusation of murder against Princess Gisela. I wished to know if that were so, and if it was, to persuade her to withdraw it immediately."

"I see." Harvester folded his hands behind his back. "And when you arrived in London, what did you hear?"

Florent looked down, his brow furrowed. He must have expected the question, but obviously it made him unhappy.

"That apparently the Countess Rostova had quite openly made the charge of which I had heard," he answered.

"Once?" Harvester pressed, moving a step or two to face the witness from a slightly different direction. "Several times? Did you hear her make it yourself, or only hear of it from others?"

"I heard her myself," Florent admitted. He looked up, his eyes wide and dark. "But I did not meet anyone who believed it."

"How do you know that, Mr. Barberini?" Harvester raised his eyebrows.

"They said so."

"And you are sure that was the truth?" Harvester sounded incredulous but still polite, if only just. "They disclaimed in public, as is only civil, perhaps only to be expected. But are you as sure they still thought the same in private? Did not the vaguest of doubts enter their minds?"

"I know only what they said," Florent replied.

Rathbone rose to his feet.

"Yes, yes," the judge agreed before he spoke. "Mr. Harvester, your questions are rhetorical, and this is not the place for them. You contradict yourself, as you know perfectly well. Mr. Barberini has no possible way of knowing what people thought other than as they expressed it. He has said all those whom he knew spoke their disbelief. If you wish us to suppose they thought otherwise, then you will have to demonstrate that for us."

"My lord, I am about to do so." Harvester was not in the least disconcerted. Neither would Rathbone have been in his place. He had every card in the game, and he knew it.

Harvester turned with a smile to Florent.

"Mr. Barberini, do you have any knowledge of injury this accusation may have caused the Princess Gisela, apart from emotional distress?"

Florent hesitated.

"Mr. Barberini?" Harvester prompted.

Florent raised his head.

"When I returned to Venice I heard the rumors repeated there-" He stopped again.

"And were they equally disbelieved in Venice, Mr. Barberini?" Harvester said softly.

Again Florent hesitated.

The judge leaned forward. "You must answer, sir, to the best of your knowledge. Say only what you know. You are not required to guess-indeed, you must not speculate."

"No," Florent said very quietly, so the jurors were obliged to lean forward a little and every sound ceased in the gallery.

"I beg your pardon?" Harvester said clearly.

"No," Florent repeated. "There were those in Venice who openly wondered if it could be true. But they were very few, perhaps two or three. In any society there are the credulous and the spiteful. The Princess Gisela has lived there for some years. Naturally, as a woman leading in society she has made enemies as well as friends. I doubt anyone truly believed it, but they took the opportunity to repeat it to her discredit."

"It did her harm, Mr. Barberini?"

"It was unpleasant."

"It did her harm?" Suddenly Harvester's voice rose sharply. He was a lean figure, leaning a little backwards to stare up at the witness, but there was no mistaking the authority in him. "Do not be evasive, sir! Did she cease to be invited to certain houses?" He spread his hands. "Were people rude to her? Were they slighting or offensive? Was she insulted? Did she find it embarra.s.sing in certain public places or among her social equals?"

Florent smiled. It took more than even the best barrister to shake his nerve. "You seem to have very slight understanding of the situation, sir," he answered. "She went into deep mourning as soon as the service of remembrance was over. She remained in her palazzo, seldom receiving visitors or even being seen at the windows. She went out nowhere, accepted no invitations and was seen in no public places. I do not know whether fewer people sent her flowers or letters than would have otherwise. And if they did, one can only guess the reasons. It could have been any of a hundred things. I know what was said, nothing more. Whatever the rumor, there will always be someone to repeat it." His expression did not change at all. "Ugo Ca.s.selli started a story of having seen a mermaid sitting on the steps of the Santa Maria Maggiore in the full moon," he added. "Some idiot repeated that, too!"

There was a t.i.tter of laughter around the gallery which died away instantly as Harvester glared at them.

But Rathbone saw with a sudden, reasonless lift of his heart that the judge was smiling.

"You find the matter humorous?" Harvester said icily to Florent.

Florent knew what he meant, but he chose to misunderstand.

"Hilarious," he said with wide eyes. "There were two hundred people out in the lagoon next full moon. Business was marvelous. I think it might have been a gondolier who started it."

Harvester was too clever to allow his temper to mar his performance.

"Most entertaining." He forced a dry smile. "But a harmless fiction. This fiction of the Countess Rostova's was anything but harmless, don't you agree, even if as absurd and as untrue?"

"If you want to be literal," Florent argued, "it is not of equal absurdity, in my opinion. I do not believe in mermaids, even in Venice. Tragically, women do sometimes murder their husbands."

Harvester's face darkened, and he swung around as if to retaliate.

But the rumble of fury from the gallery robbed him of the necessity. A man called out "Shame!" Two or three half rose to their feet. One of them raised his fist.

Several jurors shook their heads, faces tight and hard, lips pursed.

Beside Rathbone, Zorah put up her hands to cover her face, and he saw her shoulders quiver with laughter.

Harvester relaxed. He had no need to fight, and he knew it. He turned to Rathbone.

"Your witness, Sir Oliver."

Rathbone rose to his feet. He must say something. He had to begin, at least to show that he was in the battle. He had fought without weapons before, and with stakes as high. The judge would know he was playing for time, so would Harvester, but the jury would not. And Florent was almost a friendly witness. He was obviously disposed to make light of the offense. He had once glanced at Zorah with, if not a smile, a kind of softness.

But what could he ask? Zorah was wrong, and she was the only one who did not accept it.

"Mr. Barberini," he began, sounding far more confident than he felt. He moved slowly onto the floor, anything to give him a moment's time-although all the time in the world would not help. "Mr. Barberini, you say that, to your knowledge, no one believed this charge the Countess Rostova made?"

"So far as I know," Florent said guardedly.

Harvester smiled, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at Gisela encouragingly, but she was staring ahead, seemingly unaware of him.

"What about the Countess herself?" Rathbone asked. "Have you any reason to suppose that she did not believe it to be the truth?"

Florent looked surprised. Obviously, it was not the question he had expected.

"None at all," he answered. "I have no doubt that she believed it absolutely."

"Why do you say that?" Rathbone was on very dangerous ground, but he had little to lose. It was always perilous to ask a question to which you did not know the answer. He had told enough juniors never to do it.

"Because I know Zorah-Countess Rostova," Florent replied. "However absurd it is, she would not say it unless she firmly believed it herself."

Harvester rose to his feet.

"My lord, belief of a truth of a slander is no defense. There are those who sincerely believe the world to be flat. The depth of their sincerity does not make it so, as I am sure my learned friend is aware."

"I am also quite sure he is aware of it, Mr. Harvester," the judge agreed, "although it does go to malice. If he should try to persuade the jury it is so, I shall inform them to the contrary, but he has not yet attempted such a thing. Proceed, Sir Oliver, if you have a point to make?"

There was another ripple of amus.e.m.e.nt in the gallery. Someone giggled.

"Only to establish that the Countess was speaking from conviction, as you have observed, my lord," Rathbone replied. "And not from mischief or intent to cause damage for its own sake." He could think of nothing to add to it. He inclined his head and retreated.

Harvester stood up again.

"Mr. Barberini, is this opinion of yours as to the Countess's sincerity based upon knowledge? Do you know, for example, of some proof she may possess?" The question was sarcastic, but its tone was still just within the realm of politeness.

"If I knew of proof I should not be standing here with it," Florent replied with a frown. "I should have taken it to the proper authorities immediately. I say only that I am sure she believed it. I don't know why she did."

Harvester turned and looked at Zorah, then back to Florent.

"Did you not ask her? Surely, as a friend, either of hers or the Princess's, it would be the first thing you would do?"

Rathbone winced and went cold inside.

"Of course I asked her," Florent said angrily. "She told me nothing."

"Do you mean she told you she had nothing?" Harvester persisted. "Or that she said nothing in reply to you?"

"She said nothing in reply."

"Thank you, Mr. Barberini. I have no more to ask you."

The day finished with journalists scrambling to escape with their reports and seize the first hansoms available to race to Fleet Street. Outside, crowds filled the pavements, jostling and elbowing to see the chief protagonists. Cabs and carriages were brought to a halt in the street. Coachmen were shouting. Newsboys' voices were lost in the general noise. No one wanted to hear news about the war in China, Mr. Gladstone's financial proposals, or even Mr. Darwin's blasphemous and heretical notions about the origins of man. There was a pa.s.sionate human drama playing itself out a few yards away, love and hate, loyalty, sacrifice and an accusation of murder.

Gisela came out of the main entrance, escorted down the steps by Harvester on one side and a large footman on the other. Immediately, a cheer went up from the crowd. Several people threw flowers. Scarves fluttered in the brisk October air, and men waved their hats.

"G.o.d bless the Princess!" someone called out, and the cry was taken up by dozens, and then scores.

She stood still, a small, thin figure of immense dignity, her huge black skirt seeming almost to hold her up with its sweeping stiffness, as if it were solid. She waved back with a tiny gesture, then permitted herself to be a.s.sisted up to her carriage, plumed and creped in black and drawn by black horses, and moved slowly away.

Zorah's departure was as different as could be. The crowds were still there, still pressing forward, eager for a glimpse of her, but their mood had changed to one of ugliness and abuse. Nothing was thrown, but Rathbone found himself clenching as if to dodge and instinctively placing himself between Zorah and the crowd.

He almost hustled her to the hansom, and climbed in after her rather than leave her alone, in case the crowd should bar the way and the cabby be unable to make a path into the clearway of the street.

But only one woman pushed forward, shouting unintelligibly, her voice shrill with hatred. The horse was startled and lunged forward, knocking her off balance. She shrieked.

"Get outta the way, yer stupid cow!" the cabby yelled, frightened and taken by surprise himself as the reins were all but yanked out of his grasp. "Sorry, ma'am," he apologized to Zorah.

Inside the vehicle, Rathbone was jolted against the sides, and Zorah b.u.mped into him and kept her balance only with difficulty.