When the funeral rites were ended, the Mayor thought his turn was at last come. He was about to proceed with the arrest, when the Maréchale still objected.
"You can't arrest me!"
The Mayor stared in bewilderment.
"I say you can't arrest me!"
"May I ask why?"
"Because with the best will in the world I can't go to two prisons in two Cantons at the same time. I am due in Nauchâtel."
The Mayor saw that she was right, and retired crestfallen.
The Maréchale returned to Nauchâtel and surrendered to her bail. The iron gates of the grim jail closed upon her. The imprisonment was shared by her faithful lieutenant, Kate Patrick, who refused to leave her.
It was twelve days before the trial came on. The Maréchale was in delicate health, and frequently became sick. The hunger-striking and forcible feeding of these latter days would soon have killed her. She tried to eat, but had little appetite, and what little she had was destroyed by the garlic in the food. Mice disturbed her nights and in the early morning the odours which came from the passages were insupportable. The only way in which she could get any relief was by putting her face between the iron bars of the window and breathing the air which came up from the lake. She was always thankful that her face was thin and just went through the cold bars.
One morning at five or six o'clock she was awakened by happy voices singing dear familiar choruses outside the prison walls. She was very ill, but she dragged herself from her hard bed to the window, waved her hand, and cried "Amen!" Then she attached her handkerchief to a bar, and let it flutter like a flag. The signal was received with shouts of "Amen, Maréchale—be of good cheer—hold on—hallelujah!"