The face of the duke was more purple than that of a man struck with apoplexy; and his fury almost deprived him of the power of speech.

“You lie, scoundrel! you lie!” he gasped.

“Send for the marquis,” said Chanlouineau, tranquilly, “and see whether or not he is wounded.”

A refusal on the part of the duke could not fail to arouse suspicion.  But what could he do?  Martial had concealed his wound the day before; it was now impossible to confess that he had been wounded.

Fortunately for the duke, one of the judges relieved him of his embarrassment.

“I hope, Monsieur, that you will not give this arrogant rebel the satisfaction he desires.  The commission opposes his demand.”

Chanlouineau laughed loudly.

“Very naturally,” he exclaimed.  “To-morrow my head will be off, and you think nothing will then remain to prove what I say.  I have another proof, fortunately—­material and indestructible proof—­which it is beyond your power to destroy, and which will speak when my body is six feet under ground.”

“What is the proof?” demanded another judge, upon whom the duke looked askance.

The prisoner shook his head.

“I will give it to you when you offer me my life in exchange for it,” he replied.  “It is now in the hands of a trusty person, who knows its value.  It will go to the King if necessary.  We would like to understand the part which the Marquis de Sairmeuse has played in this affair—­whether he was truly with us, or whether he was only an instigating agent.”

A tribunal regardful of the immutable rules of justice, or even of its own honor, would, by virtue of its discretionary powers, have instantly demanded the presence of the Marquis de Sairmeuse.

But the military commission considered such a course quite beneath its dignity.

These men arrayed in gorgeous uniforms were not judges charged with the vindication of a cruel law, but still a law—­they were the instruments, commissioned by the conquerors, to strike the vanquished in the name of that savage code which may be summed up in two words:  “vae victis.”

The president, the noble Duc de Sairmeuse, would not have consented to summon Martial on any consideration.  Nor did his associate judges wish him to do so.

Had Chanlouineau foreseen this?  Probably.  Yet, why had he ventured so hazardous a blow?

The tribunal, after a short deliberation, decided that it would not admit this testimony which had so excited the audience, and stupefied Maurice and Abbe Midon.

The examination was continued, therefore, with increased bitterness.

“Instead of designating imaginary leaders,” resumed the duke, “you would do well to name the real instigator of this revolt—­not Lacheneur, but an individual seated upon the other end of the bench, the elder d’Escorval——­”

“Monsieur le Baron d’Escorval was entirely ignorant of the conspiracy, I swear it by all that I hold most sacred——­”