civil."

Which having said he opened and shut his mouth with gusto, and sat back
as though expecting Guida to retire.

"Your law of Haro, monsieur le Bailly!" Guida answered with flashing
eyes, her voice ringing out fearlessly. "Your law of Haro! The law of
Haro comes from the custom of Normandy, which is the law of Jersey. You
make its intent this, you make it that, but nothing can alter the law,
and what has been done in its name for generations. Is it so, that if
Philip d'Avranche trespass on my land, or my hearth, I may cry Haro,
haro! and you will take heed? But when it is blood of my blood, bone of
my bone, flesh of my flesh that he has wickedly seized; when it is the
head I have pillowed on my breast for four years--the child that has
known no father, his mother's only companion in her unearned shame, the
shame of an outcast--then is it so that your law of Haro may not apply?
Messieurs, it is the justice of Haro that I ask, not your lax usage of
it. From this Prince Philip I appeal to the spirit of Prince Rollo who
made this law. I appeal to the law of Jersey which is the Custom of
Normandy. There are precedents enough, as you well know, messieurs. I
demand--I demand--my child."

The Bailly and the jurats were in a hopeless quandary. They glanced
furtively at Philip. They were half afraid that she was right, and yet
were timorous of deciding against the Prince.

She saw their hesitation. "I call on you to fulfil the law. I have cried
Haro, haro! and what I have cried men will hear outside this Court,
outside this Isle of Jersey; for I appeal against a sovereign duke of
Europe."

The Bailly and the jurats were overwhelmed by the situation. Guida's
brain was a hundred times clearer than theirs. Danger, peril to her
child, had aroused in her every force of intelligence; she had the
daring, the desperation of the lioness fighting for her own.

Philip himself solved the problem. Turning to the bench of jurats, he
said quietly:

"She is quite right; the law of Haro is with her. It must apply."

The Court was in a greater maze than ever. Was he then about to restore
to Guida her child? After an instant's pause Philip continued:

"But in this case there was no trespass, for the child--is my own."

Every eye in the Cohue Royale fixed itself upon him, then upon Guida,
then upon her who was known as the Duchesse de Bercy. The face of the
Comtesse Chantavoine was like snow, white and cold. As the words were
spoke