Seized brutally in his den in the early morning, torn from his forest, exasperated at accusations which he did not understand, he had already, with his wild look and rent blouse, all the suspicious air of a prisoner in the dock--that air of a cunning bandit which the jail gives to the most honest man. Night was drawing in, the room was dark, and he had slunk into the shadow, when the usher brought a big lamp, having a globe without a shade, whose bright light lit up his countenance. Then he remained uncovered, and motionless. M. Denizet at once fixed his great, heavy-lidded eyes on him. And he did not speak. This was the dumb engagement, the preliminary trial of his power, before entering on the warfare of the savage, the warfare of stratagem, of snares, of moral torture. This man was the culprit, everything became lawful against him. He had now no other right than that of confessing his crime. The cross-examination commenced very slowly. "Do you know of what crime you are accused?" Cabuche, in a voice thick with impotent anger, grumbled: "No one has told me, but I can easily guess. There has been enough talk about it!" "You knew Monsieur Grandmorin?" "Yes, yes; I knew him, only too well!" "A girl named Louisette, your sweetheart, went as housemaid to Madame Bonnehon?" The quarryman flew into a frightful rage. In his anger, he was ready to shed blood. "Those who say that," he exclaimed with an oath, "are liars! Louisette was not my sweetheart." The magistrate watched him lose his temper with curiosity. And giving a turn to the examination, remarked: "You are very violent. You were sentenced to five years' imprisonment for killing a man in a quarrel?" Cabuche hung his head. That sentence was his shame. He murmured: "He struck first. I only did four years; they let me off one." "So," resumed M. Denizet, "you pretend that the girl Louisette was not your sweetheart?" Again Cabuche clenched his fists. Then in a low, broken voice, he replied: "You must know that when I came back from there, she was a child, under fourteen. At that time everyone fled from me. They would have stoned me; and she, in the forest, where I was always meeting her, approached me, and talked; she was so nice--oh! so nice! It was like that we became friends; we walked about holding each other by the hand. It was so pleasant--so pleasant in those days. Of course she was growing, and I thought of her. I can't say the contrary. I was like a madman I loved her so. She was very fond of me, too, and in the end what you mean would have happened, but they separated her from me by placing her at Doinville with this lady. Then, one night, on coming from the quarry, I found her before my door, half out of her mind, so dreadfully upset that she was burning with fever. She had not dared return to her parents; she had come to die at my place. Ah! the pig! I ought to have run and bled him at once!"