‘You are right, my friend,’ Le Gautier continued. ‘That is a duty to which none can yield. I hold evidence in my hand that we have a traitor amongst us—not in the room, I mean, but in our camp. Does any Brother here know Visci, the Deputy at Rome?’ The assembly looked one to the other, though without speaking; and Maxwell noted the deathly pallor upon Salvarini’s face, wondering what brought it there. The President repeated the question, and looked round again, as if waiting for some one to speak. ‘Yes, I know him. He was my friend,’ Salvarini observed in melancholy tones. ‘Let us hear what his fault is.’ ‘He is a traitor to the Order,’ Le Gautier continued; ‘and as such, he must die. His crime is a heavy one,’ he went on, looking keenly at Maxwell: ‘he has refused to obey a mandate of the Three.’ ‘Death!’ shouted the voices in chorus again—‘death to the traitor!’ ‘That is your verdict, then?’ the President asked, a great shout of ‘Ay’ going up in reply.—‘It is proper for you to see his refusal; we must be stern in spite of our justice. See for yourselves.’ Saying these words, he passed the papers down the table from hand to hand, Maxwell reading them in his turn, though the whole thing was a puzzle to him. He could only see that the assembly were in deadly earnest concerning something he did not understand. He was destined to have a rude awakening ere long. The papers were passed on until they reached the President’s hands again. With great care he burnt them at one of the candles, crushing the charred ashes with his fingers. ‘You are all agreed,’ he asked. ‘What is your verdict to be?’ And like a solemn echo came the one word, ‘Death!’ Salvarini alone was silent, and as Le Gautier took up the cards before him, his deathly pallor seemed to increase. ‘It is well—it is just,’ Le Gautier said sternly, as he poured the cards like water from one hand to the other. ‘My friends, we will draw lots. In virtue of my office as President, I am exempt; but I will not stand out in the hour of danger; I will take my chance with you.’ A murmur of applause followed this sentiment, and the cards were passed round by each, after being carefully examined and duly shuffled. Maxwell shuffled the cards in his hands, quite unconscious of what they might mean to him, and passed them to Salvarini. ‘No,’ he said despondingly; ‘there is fate in such things as these. If the lot falls to me, I bow my head. There is a higher Hand than man’s guiding such destinies as ours; I will not touch them.’ Saying these words with an air of extremely deep melancholy, he pushed the cards in Le Gautier’s direction. The latter turned back his cuffs, laid the cards on the palm of one hand, and looked at the assembly. ‘I will deal them round, and the first particular card that falls to a certain individual shall decide,’ he said. ‘Choose a card.’