migre against her will. She had been forced
to leave Paris by her friends, by the Marquise de Rovere. That was known
to many who listened to him. Mademoiselle St. Clair was known personally
to many. She had fed the hungry; she had cared for the poor. Had she
remained in Paris, not a hand would have been raised against her, and if
it had been, a thousand would have been raised in her defense. True, she
had become an emigre; true, she had entered Paris by stealth, and that
might require some explanation were he defending her, but he was only
speaking for the man who had hidden her. They must remember all the
circumstances. It was said that mademoiselle had heard that her lover
was in danger, and had returned to help him. Every woman would
appreciate her action, every woman who had loved; the prisoner finding
her in danger had hidden her, could not every lover understand his doing
so? Here was no conspiracy against the people but a romance, a tale of
lovers, which some poet might well make a song of for all true lovers
to sing. Certainly Lucien Bruslart was not deserving of death.

There was applause when Latour finished, but many hisses. A woman's
voice cried out that it appeared as though Citizen Latour loved the
emigre himself, and laughter and a nodding of heads greeted the sally. A
man shouted that Deputy Latour had ceased to be a true patriot, or he
would never have spoken for such a prisoner. There was uproar, silenced
by the president's bell--a pause, then sentence:--Lucien Bruslart was
condemned. No eloquence in the world could have saved him.

Raymond Latour found himself hustled as he left the building. It was
remembered that he had voted against the death of the king, that he had
been for delay. To-day had proved that he had sympathy for aristocrats
and emigres. Yet he was Deputy Latour, powerful in the Convention,
powerful in many quarters of the city, a man who was only partially
understood and therefore dangerous. Robespierre, it was whispered,
feared him, and Danton had been heard to say that he was better as a
friend than an enemy. Even the firebrand Hebert had dared to say little
against him in his paper "Pere Duchesne." Latour was keenly alive to the
angry storm which threatened, but this was not the moment to face it. A
few hours might turn storm to sunshine, or perchance increase the storm
to a veritable cyclone against which no man could stand. He passed into
the street and out of the crowd, his face