"Bear the woman to the witness-room, but the instant she revives bring her back."
The roll-call was begun—the simple attestation of individuality that had replaced the pleas of advocates and the taking of testimony. Encouraged by its first success, the audience began to murmur:
"They say the Quartier St. Antoine is in revolt against Robespierre."
"The Convention will surely declare him under arrest."
"If he falls, the executions will stop."
"I say the trial ought to stop until we see."
"Yes, postpone the trial."
"What! There are traitors, then, in the room!" cried Fouquier, who, the better to see, had mounted a step. Before his threatening glance the movement of clemency died away. Again was heard the monotonous voice of the clerk intoning the roll and the listless responses of the accused. In the stand one of the jury impatiently pulled out a watch, another stifled a yawn.
All at once there was a craning of heads. An interruption had come; the voice of the young boy was protesting:
"Citoyen, the accusation is for my brother. I am not twenty-six. I have done nothing against the Republic. Citoyen, I am sixteen. I have my papers to prove it."