demanded, he must pledge obedience to the laws of the place, and after
duly promising the same, and swearing it by placing a handful of straw
upon his head, Gerald was told to be seated while he was interrogated.

'Not know where you were born,' said the Prevot, 'and yet you call
yourself noble! Be it so; and now your charge--what is it?'

'They accuse me of having poisoned Mirabeau.'

'And would that be called a crime?' said one.

'Against whom, I would like to know, could that be an offence?' said
another. 'Not against the King, whom he had deserted, nor against the
people whom he betrayed.'

'Silence!--silence in the court!' said the Prevot; then, addressing
Gerald, he went on: 'with what object did you kill him?'

'I did not poison him--I am innocent,' said Gerald calmly.

'So are we all,' said the Prevot devoutly--'spotless as the snowdrift.
Who was she that persuaded you to act?--tell us her name.'

'There was no act, and could have been no suggester.'

'Young man,' said the Prevot solemnly, 'we know of but one capital crime
here, that is, concealment. Be frank, therefore, and fearless.'

'I cannot be sure, if I had done this crime, that I would have confessed
it here, but as I have not even imagined it, I repeat to you once more I
know nothing of it.'

With an acuteness perfectly wonderful at his age, and with an intellect
that retained much of its former subtlety--for the Prevot had been the
first lawyer at the Lyons bar--he questioned Gerald as to what had
led to the accusation. Partly to display his own powers of
cross-examination, and partly that the youth's answers imparted an
interest to his story, he prolonged the inquiry considerably. Nor was
Gerald indisposed to speak openly about himself; it was a species of
relief out of the dreary isolation in which he had recently passed his
days.

To one point the old man would, however, continue to recur without
success--had some womanly influence not swayed him? Whether his heart
had not been touched, and some secret spring of love had given the
impulse to his character, remained a mystery.

'No man,' said the Prevot, 'ever lived as you allege. He who reads
Jean Jacques lives like Rousseau; he who pores over Diderot acts the
fatalist.'

'Enough of this,' cried a rough, rude voice. 'Is he of us or not?'

It was a 'Bird of Passage' that spoke, impatient for the moment when the
new-comer should pay his entrance fee.

'He is not of you, be assured o