“Your name?” haughtily demanded the President Maynard made answer by giving it. “Of what country?”
“An Irishman—a British subject, if you prefer it.”
“It matters not, monsieur! All are alike here; more especially in times like these. We can make no distinction among those who sow sedition. What is your accusation, Lieutenant Virocq?” With a tissue of falsehoods, such as might have brought blushes to the cheek of a harlot, the Zouave officer told his story.
Maynard was almost amazed with its lying ingenuity. He disdained to contradict it.
“What’s the use, messieurs?” he said, addressing himself to the court. “I do not acknowledge your right to try me—least of all by a drum-head court-martial. I call upon you to suspend these proceedings. I appeal to the Embassy of my country!”
“We have no time for application to Embassies, monsieur. You may acknowledge our right or not—just as it pleases you. We hold and intend exercising it. And notably on your noble self.”
The ruffian was even satirical.
“Gentlemen,” he continued, addressing himself to the other members, “you’ve heard the charge and the defence. Is the accused guilty, or not?”
The vote was taken, beginning with a scurvy-looking sous-lieutenant, the junior of the court. This creature, knowing what was expected of him, pronounced:
“Coupable!”