outcry here. He had protested his innocence in vain, and he had no proof
thereof to offer. It remained for him to face dishonour as an honourable
man, steady and undismayed. Doubtless there were those who would deem his
bearing brazen, but not his worst enemy should call him coward.

Across the court an Englishman, with keen grey eyes that took in every
detail, sat and sketched him--sketched the proud, fearless pose of the
man and the hard young face, with its faint, patrician smile. The sketch
was little more than outline, a few bold strokes; but the people in
England who saw it a couple of days later felt as if the artist had
deliberately lifted a curtain and shown to them a man's wrung soul. And
everyone who saw it said, "That man is innocent!"

Trevor Mordaunt said it himself many times that day before and after the
making of the sketch. He knew, as well as did the prisoner himself, that
there would be no acquittal. Almost from the commencement of the trial he
had known it. But he knew also that two at least of the judges were
disposed towards leniency, and upon this fact he based such slender hopes
as he entertained on the prisoner's behalf. As a fellow-correspondent--a
Frenchman--had remarked to him earlier in the trial, whatever the
verdict, they would hardly martyrize the man lest at a later date further
question as to his guilt should arise and all Europe be set bubbling anew
upon that much-discussed topic--French justice.

Mordaunt was of the same opinion; but, as he watched the young officer
throughout the whole of the day's proceedings, he came to the conclusion
that the verdict was everything in this man's estimation and the sentence
less than nothing. If he were condemned to be blown from his own gun, he
would face the ordeal unshrinking, almost with indifference. Deprived of
honour, what else was there in life?