“They are soiled with blood!” she cried. “Let the victims, when my name is execrated, testify against you, not me!”
She seemed to listen to the moaning entreaty that never ceased at her feet. The president shifted in his chair and was restless with some papers. This situation—it was interesting, tragic, spiced with unexpected revelation; but the occasion, apart from it, was peremptory; the killers were clamorous outside over the unaccountable break in the programme.
“My honour,” cried Théroigne, “my early innocence, my faith and peace of mind! If I name the return to me of these as the price of blood, what is thy answer?”
His moaning rose only like a wind of despair. She drew herself erect and turned to the judges.
“Messieurs—the price?”
The whole company seemed to spring to its feet. A roar went up from it—and subsided.
“It is answered,” said the president. “Take M. St Denys away.”
There was a scurrying forward of men—a sudden stooping—a struggle. Shriek after shriek came from the ground. Ned leapt into the fray like a madman.
“To subscribe,” he screamed, “to the revengeful fury of a wanton! It is not liberty or justice. Why, look at her, look at her. The beast that would murder twenty innocents to secure the destruction of one that had wounded her vanity. Gentlemen! to be so governed by a harlot—to be——!”
He choked as he fought. There were savage hands at his throat.