he deception.

"You see that the coward will not even defend himself!" exclaimed one of
the women.

He did not deign to turn his head. What did the insult matter to him? He
knew himself to be innocent, and yet he felt that he was sinking to the
lowest depths of infamy--he beheld himself disgraced, branded, ruined.
And realizing that he must meet facts with facts, he besought God to
grant him an idea, an inspiration, that would unmask the real culprit.

But another person came to his aid. With a boldness which no one would
have expected on his part, M. de Coralth placed himself in front of
Pascal, and in a voice which betokened more indignation than sorrow, he
exclaimed: "This is a terrible mistake, gentlemen. Pascal Ferailleur
is my friend; and his past vouches for his present. Go to the Palais de
Justice, and make inquiries respecting his character there. They will
tell you how utterly impossible it is that this man can be guilty of the
ignoble act he is accused of."

No one made any reply. In the opinion of all his listeners, Ferdinand
was simply fulfilling a duty which it would have been difficult for
him to escape. The old gentleman who had decided the suspension and
the resumption of the game, gave audible expression to the prevailing
sentiment of the party. He was a portly man, who puffed like a porpoise
when he talked, and whom his companions called the baron. "Your words do
you honor--really do you honor," he said, addressing Ferdinand--"and no
possible blame can attach to you. That your friend is not an honest
man is no fault of yours. There is no outward sign to distinguish
scoundrels."

Pascal had so far not opened his lips. After struggling for a moment in
the hands of his captors, he now stood perfectly motionless, glancing
furiously around him as if hoping to discover the coward who had
prepared the trap into which he had fallen. For he felt certain that he
was the victim of some atrocious conspiracy, though it was impossible
for him to divine what motive had actuated his enemies. Suddenly those
who were holding him felt him tremble. He raised his head; he fancied
he could detect a ray of hope. "Shall I be allowed to speak in my own
defence?" he asked.

"Speak!"

He tried to free himself; but those beside him would not relax their
hold, so he desisted, and then, in a voice husky with emotion, he
exclaimed: "I am innocent! I am the victim of an infamous plot. Who
the author of it is I do not know.