“I have,” he answers, with a low musical laugh. “My reason is, that if I am put to death, murder will indeed be committed, for I am guiltless. I wish to add also one word of explanation, for I see the time has come. Both Sir Anthony and the learned judge have laid great stress on the apparent falsehood of which they allege I have been guilty, in declaring that I am the child of Captain Harry Kintore and Mrs. de Lara. They point to the fact that Dr. Merioneth has declared that the child born at Ancona was a girl. Has it never struck you, my lord, and gentlemen of the jury, that a girl could do what I have done in youth, a woman accomplish what I have accomplished in maturer years? No. I plainly see that this has not struck you, for you are men. You will not acknowledge that a woman can equal man, and with fair opportunities rise to power and fame. Yet such has been my aim in life to prove, for this I have struggled; and had it not been for the base machinations of enemies, would assuredly have lived to triumphantly achieve. Know, however, that Hector D’Estrange is no liar. If for sixteen years he has practised on Society what may be called a fraud, it was for the sake of righting a terrible wrong. My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, I again declare myself to be the child of Captain Kintore and Mrs. de Lara, but I confess my sex. In Hector D’Estrange the world beholds a woman—her name, Gloria de Lara.”
Amidst confusion and excitement unparalleled sentence of death is passed. Yet, as the judge’s words come to a close, a voice rings through the court, a voice in which defiance and love are mingled. It is a woman’s voice. Many recognise it as Flora Desmond’s.
“As there is a God above,” it cries, “Gloria de Lara shall not die!”
But even as all eyes are turned in search of the speaker, Flora Desmond has vanished.
CHAPTER V.
“Guilty!” “Condemned to death!” “Hector D’Estrange a woman!” The words have passed through the court, along the corridors, and out into the street beyond, where the crowds press eagerly forward to hear the news. It is received at first with astonishment and incredulity. Some people call it a hoax, others laugh at the statement as a wild improbability, and wonder what the real truth is. But even as they discuss the rumour, a movement is visible opposite the court, as an officer of the White Guards’ Regiment makes her appearance outside. An orderly mounted on a grey horse is holding an empty-saddled white one in readiness, and as the officer makes her appearance, brings the steed alongside the steps leading up to the entrance.
The officer is no stranger to the crowd. Flora Desmond’s features are well known to it. Is she not the leader of Hector D’Estrange’s especial regiment, a regiment entirely drawn from the women of “the people”? Whatever may be the feeling of the middle class and a portion of that one which claims to rank above it, in regard to Hector D’Estrange, one thing is certain, that amidst the poor and the needy, amidst the suffering and the struggling, that name is a talisman to conjure by.
She comes down the steps hurriedly, and mounts her horse in haste. The crowd sways and presses towards her in spite of the efforts of large numbers of police to repress them.
“The verdict?” they shout inquiringly. “Tell us the verdict!”