Then at once Ned felt himself urged forward. He went, dazed. His feet slid on the stones--plashed once or twice. He saw a great light--light jumping from the brands held high by a lurid row of women stationed on the topmost step of the shallow flight that led to the great door. He saw Théroigne seized and embraced by these harpies. Her skirt, that had been all white, bore a clownish fringe of crimson. “I cannot stay here,” she cried. “I have business within.” They answered, clattering: “Get it over and return, little badine, for the sight is good.” The next moment he and the girl were at the door. A group of four, issuing, scrambled past, almost upsetting them. A patriot to each shoulder and one fastened on like a dog at the back! It seemed an extravagant guard to one sick collapsed thing borne in the midst. They ran it down the steps; the torches fluttered and poised steady. Ned flung himself through the doorway, crushing his hands against his ears. Somebody touched and led him forward. As his brain cleared, he saw that he was standing--somewhat apart from any other--in a large, dimly lighted room. A man of a fierce and sensual mould of feature was seated hard by at a table, a great open register before him, a tin box of tobacco and some bottles within his ready reach. Round about lolled on benches pulled away from the walls, perhaps a dozen, more or less tipsy, judges (saving the mark!) subordinate to the president. A couple of men with red-stained arms and in steaming shirts stood by the closed door. An old dumb-faced turnkey held his hand to the lock. A voice--a name lately uttered, still rang confusedly in his memory. What did it signify? He caught at his reeling faculties. “Behold, citizeness, the man!” All in an instant, it seemed, the room sank into profound stillness. He struck the film from his eyes, and saw St Denys. The wretched creature stood before the table, between guards. He appeared utterly amazed and demoralised. Even in the moment of terror, Ned shrunk to see how the brute had come to predominate in that handsome debauched face. Then, suddenly, the harsh voice of the president shattered the silence. “Your name--your profession?” “St Denys, by principle and practice a demagogue,” faltered the prisoner. “Dost know of what thou art accused?” “I am innocent, M. le président--before God, I am innocent!” Something white moved forward--struck him on the shoulder. “And before _me_, Basile de St Denys?” He whipped about, and uttered a cry like a trapped hare. “It is enough,” said the judge, with admirable intuition. He was by this time so far sated with his feast of blood that a nicely balanced “situation” was like an olive to his wine. He would not cheapen the flavour by unduly extending it. “The citoyenne Théroigne pronounces sentence,” he said. “I wash my hands of the matter. Let the prisoner be enlarged.”