Dossonville, taking his place in the stream of those who constantly pressed to the front seeking the face of relative or friend, yielded good-humoredly the right of way to those who sought in sorrow. After some delay he reached the front rank. There a cry was torn from him: "Oh, mon Dieu!" At the first glance he had seen Nicole. Drawn by some subtle intelligence, she raised her eyes and saw him. "What a fatality!" he cried to himself. "She herself has done this!" A sudden anger filled him, of revolt and resentment against the stubborn sacrifice of this frail girl who had defeated him at the very last. His glance of reproach she met with one of content, which said: "You see, it is as I said." She smiled seriously, a little sadly, as one who, though not regretting the decision, had not foreseen the cost. A hand swept him back as others pressed fervently forward. He heard a mother's voice cry at his side: "They have taken my child, my son." His glance following dumbly the outstretched hands, he beheld at the side of Nicole the figure of a boy, who searched the crowd with frightened face. The buzz of voices rose about, the mother's mingling with the crowd. "But it's a mistake. He's sixteen." "Then don't worry, they can't touch him!" "Aye, he's safe!" "They arrested him for his brother, who's twenty-six." "Calm yourself, la petite mère, any one can see he's a boy." "They'll release him?" "Of course--he's under age." "Aye, any one can see that." Dossonville but half heard them. He was crushed by the cruel turn of fate that had claimed her at the last, when the morrow would mean life and security. His eyes, yet refusing to believe, had never left Nicole's face. She was pale; but the pallor was of serenity, and gave to her person a certain distinction that seemed to raise her above her class. From time to time a certain pensiveness, whether of melancholy or of regret, gathered in her eyes. She was looking with womanly revolt below her, where, on a litter, exposed to all eyes, lay the unconscious form of a woman. The audience, rebelling against such cruelty, began to murmur: "Remove her!" "Take her out!" "Send her to the hospital!" The cry was taken up, passing from a murmur in the front ranks to volume and distinctness as it rolled back. The protest became so insistent that several of the jury began to cast anxious glances at the audience, and a judge motioned to Fouquier. There was an expectant lull; but Fouquier cried, with a sneer: "She'll revive. Call the roll!" The storm that had subsided in anticipation burst forth anew. "No! No!" "Remove her!" "Justice!" "Outrage!" Near Dossonville a blacksmith, with leather apron, was shouting: "To the hospital!" A red-haired man in a baker's cap, with clenched fists, added: "Tyrant!" Fresh arrivals, bringing tidings of uprisings throughout the city, gave new courage to the protests. Fouquier, impressed at last by the outbursts, rose sullenly and commanded: