Listening inside his cell, hearing little of what was said, but comprehending all, Maynard had become half frantic.
The man he had so lately embraced—whose name he had long known and honoured—to be thus hurried out of the world like a condemned dog!
He began to believe himself dreaming!
But he had heard the protesting cry, “C’est un assassinat!”
He had repeated it himself striking his heels against the door in hopes of effecting a diversion or delay.
He kept repeating it, with other speeches, till his voice became drowned in the detonation of that death-dealing volley.
And once again he gave utterance to it after the echoes had ceased, and the courtyard became quiet. It was heard by the members of the court-martial outside.
“You’ve got a madman there!” said the presiding officer. “Who bit, Virocq?”
“One of the same,” answered the sous-lieutenant of Zouaves. “A fellow as full of sedition as the one just disposed of.”
“Do you know his name?”