Love that is root and fruit of terrene things, Love that the whole world's waters shall not drown
The whole world's fiery forces not burn down.
—Swinburne.
Michael could scarce believe his own eyes. The reality had brought him back with irresistible force from his day-dream to the tangible situation of the moment.
 
Papa Legros was here with Rose Marie. So much was true; that was no longer in the domain of dreams. They had been brought here to add their testimony to the lies spoken by the informers.
 
Torturing devils, whispering in Michael's ears, made this hellish suggestion. With it came an intensity of bitterness. He had thought that the old man loved him, yet his appearance here and now seemed like petty vengeance wreaked on a fallen enemy.
 
Michael ground his teeth, trying to drive these whispering devils away. He would not—even at a moment such as this—lose if only for an instant his perfect faith in the purity of the woman he loved. If she stood here, it was for a noble purpose. What that purpose could be, not even the mad conjectures of his own fevered fancy could contrive to imagine; his veins were throbbing and he could not think. Only the puzzle confronted him now, mocking his own obtuseness; the laggard brain, that had suffered so long, and was now dormant, unable to guess the riddle which could not be aught save one of life or death.
 
[415]
 
All he did know was that Rose Marie was standing there before all these people, she the very essence of purity and of truth, and that she was being made to swear that she would speak the truth. Was this not a vile mockery, masters, seeing that naught but what was true could ever fall from her lips?
 
Now the Attorney-General was questioning her father, with thin, sarcastic lips curled in a smile. Rose Marie replied calmly and firmly, interpreting her father's answers, not looking once on the accused, but almost always straight before her, save when she threw a look of encouragement on good Papa Legros, who then would pat her hand with unaffected tenderness.
 
"And you were present, so the other witness swore in his original information, on the 19th day of April, with him at the tavern of the 'Rat Mort' in Paris, and you did on that same evening hear the accused hold converse with one who was minister to His Majesty the King of France?"
 
The Attorney-General's voice was metallic, trenchant, like a knife; it reached the furthermost distance of the great hall and grated unpleasantly on Michael's ear. He hated to see his beloved standing there before that gaping crowd. He cursed the enforced inactivity which made of him a helpless log when with every fibre within him he longed to take her in his arms and carry her away to a secluded spot where impious eyes were not raised to her snow-white robes.
 
"My lord," he interposed loudly, "I have confessed to my guilt. What this witness may have to say can have naught to do with the plain fact. I am guilty. I have confessed. Cannot your lordship have mercy and pass sentence as soon as may be?"
 
"Prisoner at the bar," rejoined the Lord Chief Justice,[416] "'tis not for you to dictate the procedure of justice. 'Tis my duty to hear every witness who hath testimony to lay before this court. You have confessed your guilt, 'tis true, but on such confession the law will not hold you guilty, until you have so been proved; and for the sake of the witnesses who have testified against you, as well as for the sake of justice, we must obtain corroboration of their statements."
 
Then he turned once more to Papa Legros and graciously bade him to make answer to the questions put by the Attorney-General.
 
Rose Marie, before she spoke, turned and looked on Michael. Their eyes met across that vast assembly and as in one great vivid flash, each read in those of the other the sublime desire for complete sacrifice.
 
In a moment Michael understood; in that one brief flash and through the unexplainable telepathy which flew from her soul to his, the truth had burst upon him with the appalling force of absolute conviction.
 
She, the woman whom he adored, who was a saint exalted in his mind above every other woman on earth, she was about to throw her fair fame, her honour, her purity as a plaything to this crowd of hyena-like creatures, who would fall on the tattered remnants of her reputation and tear its last fragments to shreds.
 
This she meant to do. This was the grim and sublime answer to the riddle which had so puzzled Michael when first he saw his Rose Marie in this court. She meant to give her honour for his life. She loved him and came here to offer her all—her own, her father's good name, so that he—Michael—should be saved.
 
The terrible, awful agony of this thought, the mad, tumultuous joy! Here was the moment at last—the one[417] second in the illimitable cycle of time—when if there be mercy in Heaven or on earth, the kiss of Death should bring peace to the miserable wastrel who had in this brief flash of understanding tasted an eternity of happiness.
 
She loved him and was here to save him! But Heavens above, at what a cost!
 
He looked round him like some caged beast, determined at all hazards to make a mad dash for liberty.
 
It could not be! No, no; it should not be! Surely God in Heaven could not allow this monstrous sacrifice; surely the thunderbolts from above would come down crashing in the midst of this mocking, jeering assembly before his exquisite snowdrop dragged her immaculate white skirts in the mire.
 
What he did or how he fought, Michael himself scarcely knew. What was he but one small, helpless atom in this avalanche of callous lawmakers? All that he did know was that with all the strength at his command he protested his guilt again and again, imploring judgment, uttering wild words of treason that might secure his own immediate condemnation.
 
"My lord, my lord," he cried loudly, "in the name of Heaven as you yourself hope for justice hereafter, listen not to these witnesses. I swear to you that they will only confirm what the others have said. I am guilty—thrice guilty, I say—yes, I plotted to murder the king. I plotted to sell England to France and to Rome. I admit the truth of every word the informers have uttered. I am guilty, my lord—guilty—judgment, in Heaven's name—I ask for judgment."
 
"Prisoner at the bar, I command you to be silent."
 
Silent, silent when so monstrous a thing was about to happen! As well command the giant waves lashed into[418] madness by the fury of the wind to be silent when they break upon the rocks. The Lord Chief Justice commanded the musketeers to restrain this madman, to force him to hold his tongue, to drown his voice with the clatter of their arms.
 
The spectators stared aghast, women gasped with fear, the men were awed despite themselves in the presence of this raging torrent of a man's unbridled passion.
 
The general impression which this scene had created was of course that the prisoner was dreading some awful revelation which these two witnesses might make. He was avowing his guilt, therefore he did not hope to escape death; once more the superstitious dread of witchcraft rose in the minds of all. Was the accused—already practically condemned for treason—in fear that his death would mean the stake rather than the block?
 
A close phalanx gathered round the person of the king, who with a cynical smile was watching the confusion which occurred round the august majesty of this court. But he waved aside those who would have stood between him and Michael.
 
"He'll quieten down anon," he said simply, "and if I mistake not, gentlemen, we shall then learn a lesson which throughout our lives we are not like to forget."
 
Was it accident or design? Had Michael fought like a madman, or had his brain merely given way under an agonizing moral blow. Certain it is that suddenly he felt a terrible pain in his head, his senses were reeling, his tongue, parched and dry, refused to obey the dictates of his will that bade it protest again and again, until his heart could no longer beat, until his last breath had left his body.
 
He tottered and would have fallen but for strong arms[419] that held him up. He felt that irons were being placed on his wrists, that four pairs of hands gripped his arms and shoulders so that he could no longer move. The pain in his head was well-nigh intolerable; he closed his eyes in the vain effort not to swoon.
 
It was the butt end of a musket that had rendered him helpless. From the lips of many spectators came loud invectives against the miscreant who had dared to strike a peer; vaguely reaching the half-unconscious brain came the sound of voices, also the cry from a woman's throat, heard above all the others, uttered with an intensity of agony even as he fell.
 
With Michael's half-swoon the turmoil had somewhat subsided. The musketeers round him, terrified at their comrade's act, were bathing the prisoner's head with water hastily obtained. The spectators, deeply moved—unable to understand the inner meaning of the strange scene which they had just witnessed—were talking excitedly to one another.
 
Conjectures, wild guesses, flew from mouth to mouth.
 
And in the midst of all this noise, and of all the confusion, Rose Marie had remained calm, holding her father by the hand. Only when the dastardly blow felled the fighting lion down, then only did a cry of pain escape her trembling lips. Now when comparative stillness reigned around her, she once more faced the judges. Michael was now helpless, she could offer up her sacrifice in peace.
 
The Lord Chief Justice repeated his question and even as he began speaking complete silence fell upon all.
 
"Will you swear before this court that on the evening of the nineteenth day of April you were present with Master Pye and Doctor Oates at the hostelry of the 'Rat Mort' in Paris and there on that same evening did hear the[420] accused holding converse with a minister of the King of France?"
 
"No, milor," replied Rose Marie firmly; "my father was not present on the evening of the nineteenth day of April in the tavern of the 'Rat Mort' in Paris, nor in any other tavern, nor did the accused hold converse on that same evening with a minister of the King of France. And this do I swear in my father's name and mine own."
 
"But," interposed the Attorney-General in his dry, sarcastic tone, "the former witnesses have sworn that you were there present together with them, when the converse did take place."
 
"Those witnesses have lied, my lord," spoke Rose Marie.
 
"Take care, Mistress," admonished the Lord Chief Justice, "you do bring a grave charge against those witnesses."
 
"A grave charge yet a true one, my lord. Yet what they have sworn to is both false and grave."
 
"Yet are you sworn in as a witness for the Crown."
 
"And as a witness for the Crown do I speak," rejoined Rose Marie simply, "for the Crown of England is the crown of truth, and my father and I are here for the truth."
 
"Which mayhap will bear fuller investigation," quoth Sir William Jones with a sneer.
 
"As full an one as you desire, my lords."
 
"Then pray, Mistress, since you and your father do swear that you were not at the hostelry of the 'Rat Mort' in Paris on the evening of the nineteenth of April, how comes it that you can state so positively that the accused did not then and at that place hold treasonable converse with the minister of the King of France, as the other witnesses have testified?"
 
Rose Marie paused before she answered; it almost[421] seemed as if she wished to wait until all disturbing sounds had died down in the vast hall, so that her fresh and firm voice should ring clearly from end to end.
 
Then she spoke, looking straight at the judge:
 
"Because of the truth of the statement, my lord," she said, "to which my father hath already sworn before the magistrate, and to which he must, it seems, now swear openly before this court, according to the laws of your country. The accused, my lord, could not have been present at a hostelry in Paris, or held converse with a minister of the King of France on the evening of the nineteenth day of April, for on that day did I plight my troth to him at the Church of St. Gervais, and he did spend the full day in my father's house. At five o'clock in the afternoon he did journey with me to St. Denis and there remained with me at the hostelry of the 'Three Archangels,' when my father came and fetched me away."
 
"It is false," came faintly whispered from the lips of the prisoner, whose consciousness only seemed to return for this brief while, that he might register a last protest against the desecration of his saint.
 
Rose Marie's words had rung clearly and distinctly from end to end of the hall. After she spoke, after that protest from the accused, dead silence fell on all. Only the fluttering of the fans came as a strange moaning sound, hovering in the over-heated air.
 
Excitement like the embodiment of a thousand spirits flew across and across on wings widely outstretched—unseen yet tangible. Soon a half-audible curse spoken from beneath the mullioned windows broke the spell of awed silence.
 
Rupert Kestyon, with rage and shame surging in his heart, fear, too, at the possible consequences of this unex[422]pected interference, muttered angry oaths beneath his breath. Then like the ripple of innumerable waves, an hundred exclamations rose from every corner of the court. Lord Rochester was seen to whisper animatedly to the king. Mistress Peyton turned and held hurried converse with Sir John Ayloffe, who sat at her elbow. A few women tried to titter; the lowering cloud of scandal made vain endeavour to spread itself over the head of that slender girl who stood there before the judge, fearless and impassive beneath this gathering tempest of sneers and evil words.
 
She had heard the muttered oath, spoken by lips that she had already learned to dread, and her calm, blue eyes, serene as the skies of her native Provence, sought the lonely figure beneath the mullion, and rested on it with a look of challenge and of defiance. She had meant and desired to be loyal to him, she would have clung to him through sorrow and loneliness, humiliation and derision, if need be, but Fate had been too strong for her. The man she loved was in peril of his life and could only be saved at the sacrifice of her own loyalty and of her honour.
 
There had never been any conflict within her. The moment she knew how the accusation stood against her beloved, she mapped out her course and never swerved.
 
Come contumely and disgrace, public scandal and her own undoing, she was ready for it all. It had been over-easy to guess what had occurred: how Michael had come to be accused of that which was threatening his cousin. Rose Marie understood it, even as if she had been present at the interview between the two kinsmen, when one man sold his life for the other's loyalty and for her happiness.
 
All this and more her glance across the court told to Rupert Kestyon. It told him that ready as she had been to follow him even at the cost of her own misery, she was[423] not ready to pay for his safety with the life of the man whom alone she loved.
 
Michael may have sinned. He did sin, no doubt, against God and against her, but God of a truth had made him suffer enough. It was Rupert's turn now to pay, and pay he must. Small coin it was, for his child-wife's disgrace, his own humiliation at the inevitable scandal and consequent gossip was but small money indeed beside the boundless wealth of self-sacrifice which Michael had been ready to throw in his cousin's lap.
 
Perhaps that something of the magnetism which emanated from her personality, perhaps the subtle and mysterious magic which Love exercises over all who think and who feel, affected these people who wer............