A more fruitless experiment could not well have been attempted with one of the headsman’s office; for long familiarity with such sights had taken off that edge of horror which the less accustomed would be apt to feel.  Whether it were owing to this circumstance, or to his innocence, Balthazar walked to the side of the body unshaken, and stood long regarding the bloodless features with unmoved tranquillity.  His habits were quiet and meek, and little given to display.  The feelings which crowded his mind, therefore, did not escape him in words, though a gleam of something like regret crossed his face.  Not so with his companion.  Marguerite took the hand of the dead man, and hot tears began to follow each other down her cheeks, as she gazed at his shrunken and altered lineaments.

“Poor Jacques Colis!” she said in a manner to be heard by all present; “thou hadst thy faults, like all born of woman; but thou didst not merit this!  Little did the mother that bore thee, and who lived in thy infant smile—­she who fondled thee on her knee, and cherished thee in her bosom, foresee thy fearful and sudden end!  It was happy for her that she never knew the fruit of all her love, and pains, and care, else bitterly would she have mourned over what was then her joy, and in sorrow would she have witnessed thy pleasantest smile.  We live in a fearful world, Balthazar; a world in which the wicked triumph!  Thy hand, that would not willingly harm the meanest creature which has been fashioned by the will of God, is made to take life, and thy heart—­thy excellent heart—­is slowly hardening in the execution of this accursed office!  The judgment seat hath fallen to the lot of the corrupt and designing; mercy hath become the laughing-stock of the ruthless, and death is inflicted by the hand of him who would live in peace with his kind.  This cometh of thwarting God’s intentions with the selfishness and designs of men!  We would be wiser than he who made the universe, and we betray the weakness of fools!  Go to—­go to, ye proud and great of the earth—­if we have taken life, it hath been at your bidding; but we have naught of this on our consciences.  The deed hath been the work of the rapacious and violent—­it is no deed of revenge.”

“In what manner are we to know that what thou sayest is true?” asked the chatelain, who had advanced near the altar, in order to watch the effects of the trial to which he had put Balthazar and his wife.

“I am not surprised at thy question, Herr Chatelain, for nothing comes quicker to the minds of the honored and happy than the thought of resenting an evil turn.  It is not so with the despised.  Revenge would be an idle remedy for us.  Would it raise us in men’s esteem? should we forget our own degraded condition? should we be a whit nearer respect after the deed was done than we were before?”

“This may be true, but the angered do not reason.  Thou art not suspected, Marguerite, except as having heard the truth from thy husband since the deed has been committed, but thine own discernment will show that naught is more probable than that a hot contention about the past may have led Balthazar, who is accustomed to see blood, into the commission of this act?”