“If the prisoner speaks another word to his sister, remove him,” said the president, addressing the guard round the platform.

“Good! we shall hear her at last.  Silence! silence!” exclaimed the women, settling themselves comfortably on their benches, and preparing to resume their work.

“Rose Danville, the court is waiting to hear you,” said the president, crossing his legs and leaning back luxuriously in his large armchair.

Amid all the noise and confusion of the last few minutes, Rose had stood ever in the same attitude, with that strangely fixed expression never altering on her face but once.  When her husband made his way to the side of the table and stood there prominently alone, her lips trembled a little, and a faint shade of color passed swiftly over her cheeks.  Even that slight change had vanished now—­she was paler, stiller, more widely altered from her former self than ever, as she faced the president and said these words: 

“I wish to follow my brother’s example and make my confession, as he has made his.  I would rather he had spoken for me; but he is too generous to say any words except such as he thinks may save me from sharing his punishment.  I refuse to be saved, unless he is saved with me.  Where he goes when he leaves this place, I will go; what he suffers, I will suffer; if he is to die, I believe God will grant me the strength to die resignedly with him!”

She paused for a moment, and half turned toward Trudaine—­then checked herself instantly and went on:  “This is what I now wish to say, as to my share in the offense charged against my brother.  Some time ago, he told me one day that he had seen my husband’s mother in Paris, disguised as a poor woman; that he had spoken to her, and forced her to acknowledge herself.  Up to this time we had all felt certain that she had left France, because she held old-fashioned opinions which it is dangerous for people to hold now—­had left France before we came to Paris.  She told my brother that she had indeed gone (with an old, tried servant of the family to help and protect her) as far as Marseilles; and that, finding unforeseen difficulty there in getting further, she had taken it as a warning from Providence not to desert her son, of whom she was very passionately fond, and from whom she had been most unwilling to depart.  Instead of waiting in exile for quieter times, she determined to go and hide herself in Paris, knowing her son was going there too.  She assumed the name of her old and faithful servant, who declined to the last to leave her unprotected; and she proposed to live in the strictest secrecy and retirement, watching, unknown, the career of her son, and ready at a moment’s notice to disclose herself to him, when the settlement of public affairs might reunite her safely to her beloved child.  My brother thought this plan full of danger, both for herself, for her son, and for the honest old man who was risking his head for his