than herself had been. Their eyes met. One
instant's flash of intelligence between the souls of two women, and
Guida knew that the look of the Comtesse Chantavoine had said: "Speak
for your child."

Thereupon she spoke.

"Messieurs, Prince Philip d'Avranche is my husband."

Every one in the court-room stirred with excitement. Some weak-nerved
woman with a child at her breast began to cry, and the little one joined
its feeble wail to hers.

"Five years ago," Guida continued, "I was married to Philip d'Avranche
by the Reverend Lorenzo Dow in the church of St. Michael's--"

The Bailly interrupted with a grunt. "H'm--Lorenzo Dow is well out of
the way-have done."

"May I not then be heard in my own defence?" Guida cried in indignation.
"For years I have suffered silently slander and shame. Now I speak
for myself at last, and you will not hear me! I come to this court of
justice, and my word is doubted ere I can prove the truth. Is it for
judges to assail one so? Five years ago I was married secretly, in St.
Michael's Church--secretly, because Philip d'Avranche urged it, pleaded
for it. An open marriage, he said, would hinder his promotion. We were
wedded, and he left me. War broke out. I remained silent according to my
promise to him. Then came the time when in the States of Bercy he denied
that he had a wife. From the hour I knew he had done so I denied him. My
child was born in shame and sorrow, I myself was outcast in this island.
But my conscience was clear before Heaven. I took myself and my child
out from among you and went to Plemont. I waited, believing that
God's justice was surer than man's. At last Philip d'Avranche--my
husband--returned here. He invaded my home, and begged me to come
with my child to him as his wife--he who had so evilly wronged me, and
wronged another more than me. I refused. Then he stole my child from me.
You ask for proofs of my marriage. Messieurs, I have no proofs.

"I know not where Lorenzo Dow may be found. The register of St.
Michael's Church, as you all know, was stolen. Mr. Shoreham, who
witnessed the marriage, is dead. But you must believe me. There is one
witness left, if he will but speak--even the man who married me, the man
that for one day called me his wife. I ask him now to tell the truth."

She turned towards Philip, her clear eyes piercing him through and
through.

What was going on in his mind neither she nor any in that Court might
ever know, for in the pause, t