“M. de Baugis will question the witness.”
“The court will pardon me,” said De Artigny. “The witness to be heard is Madame?”
“Certainly; what means your interruption?”
“To spare the lady unnecessary embarrassment. She is my friend, and, no doubt, may find it difficult to testify against me. I merely venture to ask her to give this court the exact truth.”
“Your words are impertinent.”
“No, M. de Baugis,” I broke in, understanding all 327 that was meant. “Sieur de Artigny has spoken in kindness, and has my thanks. I am ready now to bear witness frankly.”
Cassion leaned over whispering, but De Baugis merely frowned, and shook his head, his eyes on my face. I felt the friendly touch of M. de Tonty’s hand on my shoulder, and the slight pressure brought me courage.
“What is it you desire me to tell, Monsieur?”
“The story of your midnight visit to the Mission garden at St. Ignace, the night Hugo Chevet was killed. Tell it in your own words, Madame.”
As I began my voice trembled, and I was obliged to grip the arms of the chair to keep myself firm. There was a mist before my eyes, and I saw only De Artigny’s face, as he leaned forward eagerly listening. Not even he realized all I had witnessed that night, and yet I must tell the truth––the whole truth, even though the telling cost his life. The words came faster, and my nerves ceased to throb. I read sympathy in De Baugis’ eyes, and addressed him alone. Twice he asked me questions, in so kindly a manner as to win instant reply, and once he checked Cassion when he attempted to interrupt, his voice stern with authority. I told the story simply, plainly, with no attempt at equivocation, and when I ceased speaking the room was as silent as a tomb. De Baugis sat motionless, but 328 Cassion stared at me across the table, his face dark with passion.