“Tell us in your own words,” said the judge kindly, “how it was that you nearly lost your life a second time in a fire.”

In a low voice, but steadily, Alice began her story.  She spoke briefly of her humble life with the Bonnetons, of her work at Notre-Dame, of the occasional visits of her supposed cousin, the wood carver; then she came to the recent tragic happenings, to her flight from Groener, to the kindness of M. Pougeot, to the trick of the ring that lured her from the commissary’s home, and finally to the moment when, half dead with fright, she was thrust into that cruel chamber and left there with M. Coquenil—­to perish.

As she described their desperate struggle for life in that living furnace and their final miraculous escape, the effect on the audience was indescribable.  Women screamed and fainted, men broke down and wept, even the judges wiped pitying eyes as Alice told how Paul Coquenil built the last barricade with fire roaring all about him, and then how he dashed among leaping flames and, barehanded, all but naked, cleared a way to safety.

Through the tense silence that followed her recital came the judge’s voice:  “And you accuse a certain person of committing this crime?”

“I do,” she answered firmly.

“You make this accusation deliberately, realizing the gravity of what you say?”

“I do.”

“Whom do you accuse?”

The audience literally held its breath as the girl paused before replying.  Her hands shut hard at her sides, her body seemed to stiffen and rise, then she turned formidably with the fires of slumbering vengeance burning in her wonderful eyes—­vengeance for her mother, for her lover, for her rescuer, for herself—­she turned slowly toward the cowering nobleman and said distinctly:  “I accuse the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck.”

So monstrous, so unthinkable was the charge, that the audience sat stupidly staring at the witness as if they doubted their own ears, and some whispered that the thing had never happened, the girl was mad.

Then all eyes turned to the accused.  He struggled to speak but the words choked in his throat.  If ever a great man was guilty in appearance, the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck was that guilty great man!

“I insist on saying—­” he burst out finally, but the judge cut him short.

“You will be heard presently, sir.  Call the next witness.”

The girl withdrew, casting a last fond look at her lover, and the clerk’s voice was heard summoning M. Pougeot.

The commissary appeared forthwith and, with all the authority of his office, testified in confirmation of Alice’s story.  There was no possible doubt that the girl would have perished in the flames but for the heroism of Paul Coquenil.

Pougeot was followed by Dr. Duprat, who gave evidence as to the return of Alice’s memory.  He regarded her case as one of the most remarkable psychological phenomena that had come under his observation, and he declared, as an expert, that the girl’s statements were absolutely worthy of belief.