came not.

The Comtesse Chantavoine was the one person outwardly unmoved. What
she thought, who could tell? Hundreds of eyes scanned her face, yet
she seemed unconscious of them, indifferent to them. What would not the
Bailly have given for her calmness! What would not the Greffier have
given for her importance! She drew every eye by virtue of something
which was more than the name of Duchesse de Bercy. The face, the
bearing, had an unconscious dignity, a living command and composure: the
heritage, perhaps, of a race ever more fighters than courtiers, rather
desiring good sleep after good warfare than luxurious peace.

The silence, the tension grew painful. A whole half hour had the Court
waited beyond its time. At last, however, cheers arose outside, and all
knew that the Prince was coming. Presently the doors were thrown open,
two halberdiers stepped inside, and an officer of the Court announced
Admiral his Serene Highness Prince Philip d'Avranche, Duc de Bercy.

"Oui-gia, think of that!" said a voice from somewhere in the hall.

Philip heard it, and he frowned, for he recognised Dormy Jamais's voice.
Where it came from he knew not, nor did any one; for the daft one was
snugly bestowed above a middle doorway in what was half balcony, half
cornice.

When Philip had taken his place beside the Comtesse Chantavoine, came
the formal opening of the Cour d'Heritage.

The Comtesse's eyes fixed themselves upon Philip. There was that in
his manner which puzzled and evaded her clear intuition. Some strange
circumstance must have delayed him, for she saw that his flag-lieutenant
was disturbed, and this she felt sure was not due to delay alone. She
was barely conscious that the Bailly had been addressing Philip, until
he had stopped and Philip had risen to reply.

He had scarcely begun speaking when the doors were suddenly thrown open
again, and a woman came forward quickly. The instant she entered Philip
saw her, and stopped speaking. Every one turned.

It was Guida. In the silence, looking neither to right nor left, she
advanced almost to where the Greffier sat, and dropping on her knee and
looking up to the Bailly and the jurats, stretched out her hands and
cried:

"Haro, haro! A l'aide, mon Prince, on me fait tort!"

If one rose from the dead suddenly to command them to an awed obedience,
Jerseymen could not be more at the mercy of the apparition than at the
call of one who cries in their midst, "Haro! Haro!"--that