n 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 God! nothing can
save him," left the court. The coxswain, 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,
a