What had taken place in the court-room before she was led in and after her flight? She could not have told anything about it; she was only conscious of an invincible fear from her first brief contact with justice. She had been shut up in a room with the other witnesses, and had heard the bailiff’s voice calling them one by one, and had seen them go out, her great-uncle Stephen and her Aunt Thérèse just before her. Her turn came last, and she had been conducted to the bar trembling like a new recruit pushed out before the footlights. She had seen a great crowd facing her as she came in, upstairs and down on the floor and in the balcony, a multitude of eyes staring at her, wounding and overwhelming her. All Chambéry was there, spying pitilessly on a young girl’s fear, as they had spied eagerly of late on her family’s death agony. She found herself at last before three magistrates in their red robes, with the rows of jurors on their right. She had thought she should faint when she gave her name, but her father’s voice had caught her ears, that firm, warm voice which she knew so well. It had fortified her instantly, like a cordial. The old advocate was standing erect in front of Maurice, whom he seemed to be protecting, and his presence was so calm that she was at once surprised and quieted by the contagion of it. He put in quite simple terms the questions to be put to her. She had made barely audible replies, and then had fled like a poor bird fluttering off into the brushwood. “Father will be displeased with me,” she thought in self-reproach. “What a command he has over himself! How he controls himself, and how they all fear him! He stood up twice, and each time I felt a deeper silence in the room. His eyes flashed fire. He seemed young again. He is our whole strength and will.” At half-past twelve Mr. Roquevillard came home for lunch. “Serve us quickly, Melanie,” he called out from the doorway. “I’ve not much time.” The look of battle was in his eyes, a frown on his brow, his gaze direct and piercing. The muscles of his face were taut, and his recent sorrow and anxiety had made him look much older; but his commanding will checked for the time being the ravages of age and fatigue and trouble. “Well, father?” inquired Margaret piteously. He reassured her in a few words. “The hearing reopens in two hours.” “It’s not over yet?” “No, no.” “What’s happened?” “Didn’t you see anything of it, little girl?” “Oh, no, father. I came away. Tell me every thing. See, I’m still trembling.” “You mustn’t tremble, Margaret. Be brave.” At table, while he ate his lunch rapidly, but with no appetite, he went over the arguments for her. “You didn’t understand very much, no doubt,” he said, “about the selection of the jury, the administering of the oath to them, the challenging, and the calling of the witnesses.”