“Yes. There is shouting outside—shots, too. That is the rattle of musketry. More distant, I hear guns—cannon. One might fancy an engagement!”
“It is!” gravely responded the Red Republican. “An engagement that will end in the annihilation of our freedom. You are listening to its death-knell—mine, too, I make no doubt of it.”
Touched by the serious words of his fellow-captive, Maynard was turning to him for an explanation, when the door was suddenly thrown open, discovering a group outside it. They were officers in various uniforms—chiefly Zouaves and Chasseurs d’Afrique.
“He is in here,” cried one of them, whom Maynard recognised as the ruffian Virocq.
“Bring him out, then!” commanded one with the strap of a colonel upon his shoulders. “Let his trial proceed at once!”
Maynard supposed it to be himself. He was mistaken. It was the man more noted than he—more dangerous to the aspirations of the Empire. It was L—.
A large drum stood in the open courtyard, with half a dozen chairs around it. On its head was an inkstand, pens, and paper. They were the symbols of a court-martial.
They were only used as shams. The paper was not stained with the record of that foul proceeding. The pen was not even dipped in the ink. President and members, judge, advocate, and recorder, were all half-intoxicated. All demanded blood, and had determined on shedding it.
Of the trial, informal as it was, Maynard was not a spectator. The door had been re-closed upon him; and he stood listening behind it.
Not for long. Before ten minutes had elapsed, there came through the keyhole a simple word that told him his fellow-prisoner was condemned. It was the word “Coupable!”