“Thou acquittest, then, Jacques Colis of any false intention?”

“He was less strong than he believed himself, mein Herr; he was not equal to sharing our disgrace, which was put rudely and too strongly before him.”

“Thou hadst consented freely to the marriage thyself, and wert well disposed to become his wife?”

The imploring look and heaving respiration of Christine were lost on the blunted sensibilities of a criminal judge.

“Was the youth dear to thee?” he repeated, without perceiving the wound he was inflicting on female reserve.

Christine shuddered.  She was not accustomed to have affections which she considered the most sacred of her short and innocent existence so rudely probed; but, believing that the safety of her father depended on her frankness and sincerity, by an effort that was nearly superhuman, she was enabled to reply.  The bright glow that suffused her face, however, proclaimed the power of that sentiment which becomes instinctive to her sex, arraying her features in the lustre of maiden shame.

“I was little used to hear words of praise, Herr Chatelain,—­and they are so soothing to the ears of the despised!  I felt as a girl acknowledges the preference of a youth who is not disagreeable to her.  I thought he loved me—­and—­what would you more, mein Herr?”

“None could hate thee, innocent and abused child!” murmured the Signor Grimaldi.

“You forget that I am Balthazar’s daughter, mein Herr; none of our race are viewed with favor.”

“Thou, at least, must be an exception!”

“Leaving this aside,” continued the chatelain, “I would know if thy parents showed resentment at the misconduct of thy betrothed; whether aught was said in thy presence, that can throw light on this unhappy affair?”

The officer of the Valais turned his head aside; for he met the surprised and displeased glance of the Genoese, whose eye expressed a gentleman’s opinion at hearing a child thus questioned in a matter that so nearly touched her father’s life.  But the look and the improper character of the examination escaped the notice of Christine.  She relied with filial confidence on the innocence of the author of her being, and, so far from being shocked, she rejoiced with the simplicity and confidence of the undesigning at being permitted to say anything that might vindicate him in the eyes of his judges.

“Herr Chatelain,” she answered eagerly, the blood that had mounted to her cheeks from female weakness, deepening to, and warming, her very temples with a holier sentiment:  “Herr Chatelain, we wept together when alone; we prayed for our enemies as for ourselves, but naught was said to the prejudice of poor Jacques—­no, not a whisper.”

“Wept and prayed!” repeated the judge, looking from the child to the father, in the manner of a man that fancied he did not hear aright.

“I said both, mein Herr; if the former was a weakness, the latter was a duty.”