“Why mercy?” demanded Sabre-tout, “do you feel that you are guilty, wretch?” “Oh! oh!” exclaimed Roland, “is that how you royalists and Christians speak to a man of God!” “That man,” said Cadoudal, “is not a man of God, but a man of the devil.” “Who is he, then?” “Both an atheist and a regicide; he denied his God and voted for the death of the king. That is the Conventional Audrein.” Roland shuddered. “What will they do?” he asked. “He gave death, he will receive death,” answered Cadoudal. During this time the Chouans had pulled Audrein out of the diligence. “Ha! is it you, bishop of Vannes?” cried Sabre-tout. “Mercy!” begged the bishop. “We were informed of your arrival, and were waiting for you.” “Mercy!” repeated the bishop for the third time. “Have you your pontifical robes with you?” “Yes, my friends, I have.” “Then dress yourself as a prelate; it is long since we have seen one.” A trunk marked with the prelate’s name was taken from the diligence and opened. They took the bishop’s robes from it, and handed them to Audrein, who put them on. Then, when every vestment was in its place, the peasants ranged themselves in a circle, each with his musket in his hand. The glare of the torches was reflected on the barrels, casting evil gleams. Two men took the priest and led him into the circle, supporting him beneath his arms. He was pale as death. There was a moment of lugubrious silence. A voice broke it. It was that of Sabre-tout. “We are about to judge you,” said the Chouan. “Priest of God, you have betrayed the Church; child of France, you have condemned your king to death.” “Alas! alas!” stammered the priest. “Is it true?” “I do not deny it.” “Because it is impossible to deny. What have you to say in justification?” “Citizens--” “We are not citizens,” cried Sabre-tout, in a voice thunder, “we are royalists.” “Gentlemen--” “We are not gentlemen; we are Chouans.” “My friends--” “We are not your friends; we are your judges. You judges are questioning you; answer.” “I repent of what I did, and I ask pardon of God and men.” “Men cannot pardon you,” replied the same implacable voice; “for, pardoned to-day, you would sin to-morrow. You may change your skin, but never your heart. You have nothing to expect from men but death; as for God, implore his mercy.” The regicide bowed his head; the renegade bent his knee. But suddenly drawing himself up, he cried: “I voted the king’s death, it is true, but with a reservation--” “What reservation?” “The time of the execution.” “Sooner or later, it was still the king’s death which you voted, and the king was innocent.” “True, true,” said the priest, “but I was afraid.” “Then you are not only a regicide, and an apostate, but also a coward. We are not priests, but we are more just than you. You voted the death of the innocent; we vote the death of the guilty. You have ten minutes in which to prepare to meet your God.”