Although d'Estrailles' back was towards them, those standing there in the shadows could see the proud bearing of his mien as he listened to his judges last words.
"Henri d'Estrailles," said the old man sternly, "you are found guilty and condemned to die; murderer and traitor that you are, the death of a felon is fitting ending to such a life. My son's life you spared not to take by foul and cruel means, and still more, in reward for the hospitality I all unwittingly bestowed upon you, you have robbed me of a daughter's soul. Coward and villain! have you made your peace with God?—if so, it were well, for even in death the hand of every true and upright man shall be against you."
"Nay, my son," interrupted Father Ambrose gently, "beware how you pass unjust sentence on a man whom my soul telleth me is innocent. Nay, frown not, but listen to the warning of an old man, who from early youth hath learnt to read men's hearts. Have I not but now listened to the confessions of one about to pass to the judgment of One with Whom no deception is possible? and in the face of eternity itself would he look back upon his fellow-men with lies upon his lips? I tell thee, no, Sieur de Mereac, no, a hundred times! And so I tell thee, that having read the secrets of this man's soul, I find him innocent of the crime whereof he is accused."
"Nay, my father," interrupted de Coray with a sneer, "you speak well, but, bethink you, it was I who saw this man strike the very blow which he so glibly denies; I who saw him creep so treacherously behind my poor kinsman—the noble young Yvon—and cleave him from brow to chin ere he could turn to see his foe; I——"
"Liar!"
The single word rang down the hall like the challenging blast of a trumpet, as all turned to see standing there against the tapestry the tall, gaunt figure of a man.
CHAPTER X
For a few minutes there reigned a breathless silence. All eyes seemed indeed riveted on that strange, emaciated figure, which half leant, as if for support, against Gwennola's slender form as she stood beside him, her pale face flushed now rosy red with joy and triumph, as she glanced from the bound, helpless figure between the soldiers towards her father.
The Sieur de Mereac had risen, and was standing, one trembling hand clutching the back of his chair, the other shading his eyes, as if the flickering torchlight blinded his sight, as he gazed in mute wonder towards the speaker. Then, as the blue eyes met the black with an up-leaping light of recognition, another cry, more faltering, yet trembling with a very wonderment of joy, rang out in the silence—
"Yvon! Yvon! my boy! my boy!"