Now the prisoner's heart was beating evenly again, somehow he had regained his self-possession.
"You are lying, Groener," accused the judge. "You remember this man perfectly. Come, we will lift him from the floor and look him in the face, full in the face. There!" He signaled the lantern operator and there leaped forth on the sheet the head of Martinez, the murdered, mutilated head with shattered eye and painted cheeks and the greenish death pallor showing underneath. A ghastly, leering cadaver in collar and necktie, dressed up and photographed at the morgue, and now flashed hideously at the prisoner out of the darkness. Yet Groener's heart pulsed on steadily with only a slight quickening, with less quickening than Coquenil felt in his own heart.
"Who is it?" demanded the judge.
"I don't know," declared the accused.
Again the picture changed.
"Who is this?"
"Napoleon Bonaparte."
"And this?"
"Prince Bismarck."
"And this?"