Nevertheless he was amazed.
“Ah!” cried the other, “but I am literally an advocate; and I heard monsieur le duc’s final words; and it is my business to read the soul’s confession in the face. I perceive, however, that monsieur resents my presumption, which is, of a truth, unwarrantable.”
He rose as if to go, his dark eyes still quick with a gentle, unrebukeful sympathy. Ned was impelled to cry hastily—
“It is my right at least, monsieur, to ask the title of my counsel!”
“I have none,” said the stranger simply. “My name is Vergniaud.”
Ned sprang to his feet, upsetting his chair.
“Vergniaud!” he cried, and stood staring at the man whose utterances—echoed latterly to the very cliffs of England—had seemed to him the first inspired interpretation of the Revolution as a real, breathing, human, emancipatory force. Now he understood why the others had shown such deference to this one of their party.
“Vergniaud!” he cried again faintly, and so rallied himself.
“Truly,” said he, “I have entertained an angel unawares. M. Vergniaud—indeed, I have a very unhappy attachment; and I need counsel at this moment, if ever man did.”