Mother of Heaven! such a thought, such a suggestion, was impossible, absurd.
But, where the prisoner is prejudged, argument is useless.
They refused to listen to the poor man's protestations, cries, and vows of innocency. Sir Stephen Berrington lay here, lately murdered; he, Pierre Koustak, was the only man in the Manor at the time, therefore Pierre must have done the deed.
That was the summing up. Afterwards Pierre, still pleading and imploring against such injustice, was bound, gagged, and carried to a little room at the back of the house.
"He will be safe there," observed Jack Denningham, with a grin, as he withdrew the key from the lock, placing it in his pocket. "And now for the comedy, Citizen Marcel, since tragedy is done with—for the present."
Marcel Trouet seemed thoroughly to appreciate the jest, for his sly face—a little paler perhaps than usual—was twisted into a satisfied grimace.
"You will wait here now, milord," he observed with a grand bow, "and I will bring your obedient and altogether adoring people to listen to the fatherly advice and counsel of the Citoyen Morice Varenac, ci-devant Marquis and aristocrat, but now the friend of liberty and the great and glorious Revolution."
He waved his red cap excitedly over his head as he spoke, laughing uproariously.
One is merry when one's plans succeed beyond—if contrary to—expectation. But it might have been observed that the Revolutionary leader took care to avoid re-entering the library where a dead man lay by a dying fire.