“The charge?” he repeated negligently. “Oh, I do not know--there are a dozen charges. I have not yet determined which I shall use. But what does it matter? Between ourselves, I will tell you, citizen, that I have decided upon your death because you are in the way;” and again his eyes wandered to that still figure. “You would, then,” I said, realizing that I must keep my calmness, “murder a patriot in order to be more free to wrong a woman?” “A patriot?” he sneered. “Perhaps not--but I would murder an aristocrat for far less cause than that.” “I am not an aristocrat,” I protested desperately. “So you persist in that farce?” he queried coldly. “Really, you grow wearisome. Perhaps you will explain then how you happen to be wearing the clothing of that traitor, Pasdeloup?” My tongue refused to answer, and he laughed again as he noted my confusion. “I recognize it, every stitch,” he went on evenly; “every stitch except the shoes. And I even think I can guess where you got those. More than that, I can have you identified in a moment. Perhaps you remember Sergeant Dubosq, whom you encountered on the road from Tours. I am sure that he will recall you readily, even in this guise, for he has an excellent memory. Shall I summon him?” I saw that it was useless to persist. “No,” I answered; “don’t disturb the sergeant.” “You admit then that you are Tavernay?” “Yes,” I answered boldly; “why not? I have committed no crime----” “You have opposed the Nation.” “In what way? By trying to escape?” “You have abetted the Nation’s enemies.” “By accepting their hospitality? That is childish!” “You have murdered two patriots,” he went on inexorably. “Two?” I repeated with a start. “One you stabbed last night.” “It was his life or mine.” “The other you shot a few moments ago.” “To defend a woman’s honor.” A sudden light blazed in his eyes. “You pretend it still exists?” he sneered. I gave him a look, which, had looks that power, would have scorched and shrivelled him where he stood. But instead of shrinking he came very close to me and stared into my eyes, a fiendish grin upon his lips. “Really, Citizen Tavernay,” he said at last, “it would appear from your countenance that this surprising thing is true; and yet I can scarcely believe it. Have you taken a vow? Are you--but no matter. I thank you, my friend, for your forbearance. I applaud your virtue, which is really unique even in this age of virtue. Nevertheless you must agree with me that your death is more than ever necessary. Indeed I find you already one too many!” and he glanced toward the cot with a meaning unmistakable. “What a brute!” I murmured, contempt mastering every other emotion. “What a brute! This is your whole life, then! You think of nothing but vileness. I might have guessed as much by looking at you! But one victim has already escaped you----” “Yes,” he broke in, his face suddenly contorted with rage; “and the wretch who fired that shot is burning in hell for it!”