Maynard, though he did not go thus far, said nothing in dissent. It was
not time to _split_ upon delicate distinctions!
"But what do you mean by speaking of your danger?" asked Maynard.
"Surely it has not come to this?"
"Do you hear those sounds?" The two stood listening.
"Yes. There is shouting outside--shots, too. That is the rattle of
musketry. More distant, I hear guns--cannon. One might fancy an
engagement!"
"It is!" gravely responded the Red Republican. "An engagement that will
end in the annihilation of our freedom. You are listening to its
death-knell--mine, too, I make no doubt of it."
Touched by the serious words of his fellow-captive, Maynard was turning
to him for an explanation, when the door was suddenly thrown open,
discovering a group outside it. They were officers in various
uniforms--chiefly Zouaves and Chasseurs d'Afrique.
"He is in here," cried one of them, whom Maynard recognised as the
ruffian Virocq.
"Bring him out, then!" commanded one with the strap of a colonel upon
his shoulders. "Let his trial proceed at once!"
Maynard supposed it to be himself. He was mistaken. It was the man
more noted than he--more dangerous to the aspirations of the Empire. It
was L--.
A large drum stood in the open courtyard, with half a dozen chairs
around it. On its head was an inkstand, pens, and paper. They were the
symbols of a court-martial.
They were only used as shams. The paper was not stained with the record
of that foul proceeding. The pen was not even dipped in the ink.
President and members, judge, advocate, and recorder, were all
half-intoxicated. All demanded blood, and had determined on shedding
it.
Of the trial, informal as it was, Maynard was not a spectator. The door
had been re-closed upon him; and he stood listening behind it.
Not for long. Before ten minutes had elapsed, there came through the
keyhole a simple word that told him his fellow-prisoner was condemned.
It was the word "_Coupable_!"
It was quick followed by a fearful phrase: "_Tires au moment_!" There
were some words of remonstrance which Maynard could hear spoken by his
late fellow-prisoner; among them the phrase, "_C'est un assassinat_!"
They were followed by a shuffling sound--the tread as of a troop
hurrying into line. There was an interval of silence, like a lull in
the resting storm. It was short--only for a few seconds.
It was broken by a shout that filled the whole court, though proceeding
only from a single voice! It was that shout that had more than once
driven a king from his throne; but was now to be the pretext for
establishing an Empire!
"_Vive la republique rouge_!" were the last words of the heroic L--, as
he bared his breast to the bullets of his assassins!
"_Tirez_!" cried a voice, which Maynard recognised as that of the
sous-lieutenant Virocq; its echo around the walls overtaken and drowned
by the deadly rattle it had invoked!
It was a strange time for exultation over such a dastardly deed. But
that courtyard was filled with strange men. More like fiends were they
as they waved their shakoes in air, answering the defiance of the fallen
man with a cry that betokened the fall of France! "_Vive l'Empereur_!"