A superfluous precaution, alas! The abbe and Maurice had expected to find the crowd too great for the hall, large as it was, and they found the chapel almost unoccupied. There were not twenty persons in the building. Standing back in the shadow of the wall were perhaps a dozen men, pale and gloomy, a sullen fire smouldering in their eyes, their teeth tightly clinched. They were army officers retired on half pay. Three men, attired in black, were conversing in low tones near the door. In a corner stood several country-women with their aprons over their faces. They were weeping bitterly, and their sobs alone broke the silence. They were the mothers, wives, or daughters of the accused men. Nine o’clock sounded. The rolling of the drum made the panes of the only window tremble. A loud voice outside shouted, “Present arms!” The military commission entered, followed by the Marquis de Courtornieu and several civil functionaries. The duke was in full uniform, his face a little more crimson, and his air a trifle more haughty than usual. “The session is open!” pronounced the Duc de Sairmeuse, the president. Then, in a rough voice, he added: “Bring in the culprits.” He had not even the grace to say “the accused.” They came in, one by one, to the number of twenty, and took their places on the benches at the foot of the platform. Chanlouineau held his head proudly erect, and looked composedly about him. Baron d’Escorval was calm and grave; but not more so than when, in days gone by, he had been called upon to express his opinion in the councils of the Empire. Both saw Maurice, who was so overcome that he had to lean upon the abbe for support. But while the baron greeted his son with a simple bend of the head, Chanlouineau made a gesture that clearly signified: “Have confidence in me--fear nothing.” The attitude of the other prisoners betrayed surprise rather than fear. Perhaps they were unconscious of the peril they had braved, and the extent of the danger that now threatened them. When the prisoners had taken their places, the chief counsel for the prosecution rose. His presentation of the case was characterized by intense violence, but lasted only five minutes. He briefly narrated the facts, exalted the merits of the government, of the Restoration, and concluded by a demand that sentence of death should be pronounced upon the culprits. When he ceased speaking, the duke, addressing the first prisoner upon the bench, said, rudely: “Stand up.” The prisoner rose. “Your name and age?” “Eugene Michel Chanlouineau, aged twenty-nine, farmer by occupation.” “An owner of national lands, probably?” “The owner of lands which, having been paid for with good money and made fertile by labor, are rightfully mine.” The duke did not wish to waste time on discussion. “You have taken part in this rebellion?” he pursued. “Yes.” “You are right in avowing it, for witnesses will be introduced who will prove this fact conclusively.”