"I do."
"Whom do you accuse?"
The audience literally held its breath as the girl paused before replying. Her hands shut hard at her sides, her body seemed to stiffen and rise, then she turned formidably with the fires of slumbering vengeance burning in her wonderful eyes—vengeance for her mother, for her lover, for her rescuer, for herself—she turned slowly toward the cowering nobleman and said distinctly: "I accuse the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck."
So monstrous, so unthinkable was the charge, that the audience sat stupidly staring at the witness as if they doubted their own ears, and some whispered that the thing had never happened, the girl was mad.
Then all eyes turned to the accused. He struggled to speak but the words choked in his throat. If ever a great man was guilty in appearance, the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck was that guilty great man!
"I insist on saying—" he burst out finally, but the judge cut him short.
"You will be heard presently, sir. Call the next witness."
The girl withdrew, casting a last fond look at her lover, and the clerk's voice was heard summoning M. Pougeot.
The commissary appeared forthwith and, with all the authority of his office, testified in confirmation of Alice's story. There was no possible doubt that the girl would have perished in the flames but for the heroism of Paul Coquenil.
Pougeot was followed by Dr. Duprat, who gave evidence as to the return of Alice's memory. He regarded her case as one of the most remarkable psychological phenomena that had come under his observation, and he declared, as an expert, that the girl's statements were absolutely worthy of belief.