During this strange scene the amazed and panic-struck judges whispered; M. Laubardemont looked at the archers, indicating to them the points they were especially to watch, among which, more particularly, was that occupied by the group in black.  The accusers looked toward the gallery of the Bishop of Poitiers, but discovered no expression in his dull countenance.  He was one of those old men of whom death appears to take possession ten years before all motion entirely ceases in them.  His eyes seemed veiled by a half sleep; his gaping mouth mumbled a few vague and habitual words of prayer without meaning or application; the entire amount of intelligence he retained was the ability to distinguish the man who had most power, and him he obeyed, regardless at what price.  He had accordingly signed the sentence of the doctors of the Sorbonne which declared the nuns possessed, without even deducing thence the consequence of the death of Urbain; the rest seemed to him one of those more or less lengthy ceremonies, to which he paid not the slightest attention —­accustomed as he was to see and live among them, himself an indispensable part and parcel of them.  He therefore gave no sign of life on this occasion, merely preserving an air at once perfectly noble and expressionless.

Meanwhile, Father Lactantius, having had a moment to recover from the sudden attack made upon him, turned toward the president and said: 

“Here is a clear proof, sent us by Heaven, of the possession, for the Superior never before has forgotten the modesty and severity of her order.”

“Would that all the world were here to see me!” said Jeanne de Belfiel, firm as ever.  “I can not be sufficiently humiliated upon earth, and Heaven will reject me, for I have been your accomplice.”

Perspiration appeared upon the forehead of Laubardemont, but he tried to recover his composure.  “What absurd tale is this, Sister; what has influenced you herein?”

The voice of the girl became sepulchral; she collected all her strength, pressed her hand upon her heart as if she desired to stay its throbbing, and, looking at Urbain Grandier, answered, “Love.”

A shudder ran through the assembly.  Urbain, who since he had fainted had remained with his head hanging down as if dead, slowly raised his eyes toward her, and returned entirely to life only to undergo a fresh sorrow.  The young penitent continued: 

“Yes, the love which he rejected, which he never fully knew, which I have breathed in his discourses, which my eyes drew in from his celestial countenance, which his very counsels against it have increased.

“Yes, Urbain is pure as an angel, but good as a man who has loved.  I knew not that he had loved!  It is you,” she said more energetically, pointing to Lactantius, Barre, and Mignon, and changing her passionate accents for those of indignation—­“it is you who told me that he loved; you, who this morning have too cruelly avenged me by killing my rival with a word.  Alas, I only sought to separate them!  It was a crime; but, by my mother, I am an Italian!  I burned with love, with jealousy; you allowed me to see Urbain, to have him as a friend, to see him daily.”  She was silent for a moment, then exclaimed, “People, he is innocent!  Martyr, pardon me, I embrace thy feet!”