“Here is thy boasted justice!  Thine own laws are brought in support of thine own oppression.  Didst thou know how much pains his father had in teaching Balthazar to strike, how many long and anxious visits were paid between his parent and mine in order to bring up the youth in the way of his dreadful calling, thou wouldst not think him so apt!  God unfitted him for his office, as he has unfitted many of higher and different pretensions for duties that have been cast upon them in virtue of their birthrights.  Had it been I, chatelain, thy suspicions would have a better show of reason.  I am formed with strong and quick feelings, and reason has often proved too weak for passion, though the rebuke that has been daily received throughout a life hath long since tamed all of pride that ever dwelt in me.”

“Thou hast a daughter present?”

Marguerite pointed to the group which held her child.

“The trial is severe,” said the judge, who began to feel compunctions that were rare to one of his habits, “but it is as necessary to your own future peace, as it is to justice itself, that the truth should be known.  I am compelled to order thy daughter to advance to the body.”

Marguerite received this unexpected command with cold womanly reserve.  Too much wounded to complain, but trembling for the conduct of her child, she went to the cluster of females, pressed Christine to her heart, and led her silently forward.  She presented her to the chatelain, with a dignity so calm and quiet, that the latter found it oppressive!

“This is Balthazar’s child,” she said.  Then folding her arms, she retired herself a step, an attentive observer of what passed.

The judge regarded the sweet pallid face of the trembling girl with an interest he had seldom felt for any who had come before him in the discharge of his unbending duties.  He spoke to her kindly, and even encouragingly, placing himself intentionally between her and the dead, momentarily hiding the appalling spectacle from her view, that she might have time to summon her courage.  Marguerite blessed him in her heart for this small grace, and was better satisfied.

“Thou wert betrothed to Jacques Colis?” demanded the chatelain, using a gentleness of voice that was singularly in contrast with his former stern interrogatories.

The utmost that Christine could reply was to bow her head.

“Thy nuptials were to take place at the late meeting of the Abbaye des Vignerons—­it is our unpleasant duty to wound where we could wish to heal—­but thy betrothed refused to redeem his pledge?”

“The heart is weak, and sometimes shrinks from its own good purposes,” murmured Christine.  “He was but human, and he could not withstand the sneers of all about him.”

The chatelain was so entranced by her gentle and sweet manner that he leaned forward to listen, lest a syllable of what she whispered might escape his ears.