“I do indeed speak from the reason to the reason,” said Dessauer, calmly; “for in this matter there is no true averment, even of witchcraft, but only of the administration of poison—­which ought to be proven by the ordinary means of producing some portion of the drug, both in the possession of the criminal and from the body of the murdered man.  This has not been done.  There has been no evidence, save, as I have shown, such as may be easily compelled or suborned.  If this maid be condemned, there is no one of you with a wife, a daughter, a sweetheart, who may not have her burned or beheaded on just as little evidence—­if she have a single enemy in all the city seeking for the sake of malice or thwarted lust to compass her destruction.

“Moreover, it indeed matters little for the argument that this damsel is fair to the eye.  Save in so far as she is more the object of desire, and that when the greed of the lustful eye is balked” (here he paused and looked fixedly between his knees), “disappointment oft in such a heart turns to deadly poison.  And so that which was desired is the more bitterly hated, and revenge awakes to destroy.

“But if beauty matters little, character matters greatly.  And what, by common consent, has been known in the city concerning this maid?

“I ask not you, Duke Otho, who have lived apart in your castle or in far lands, a stranger to the city like myself.  But I ask the people among whom, during all these; past months of the plague, she has dwelt.  Is she not known among them as Saint Helena?”

“Aye,” cried the people, “Saint Helena, indeed—­our savior when there was none to help!  God save Saint Helena!”

Dessauer waved his hand for silence.

“Did she not go among you from house to house, carrying, not the poison-cup, but the healing draught?  Was not her hand soft on the brow of the dying, comfortable about the neck of the bereaved?  Day and night, whose fingers reverently wrapped up the poor dead bodies of your beloved?  Who quieted your babes in her arms, fed thorn, nursed them, healed them, buried them—­wore herself to a shadow for your sakes ?”

“Saint Helena!” they cried; “Saint Helena, the angel of the Red Tower!”

“Aye,” said Dessauer, in tones like thunder, “hear their voices!  There are a thousand witnesses in this house untortured, unsuborned.  I tell you, the guilt of innocent blood will lie on you, great Duke—­on you counsellors of evil things, if you condemn this maid.  Your throne, Duke Otho, shall totter and fall, and your life’s sun shall set in a sea of blood!”

He sat down calm and fearless as the Duke raged to Michael Texel, as I think, desiring that the fearless pleader could be seized on the instant, and punished for his insolence.  But as the folk shouted in the hall, and the thunder of cheering came in through the open windows from the great concourse without, Michael Texel calmed his master, urging upon him that the temper of the people was for the present too dangerous.  And also, doubtless, that they could easily compass their ends by other means.