our, who stood with head down and feelings worse
than those of his condemnation to death--

"Speak, butcher's grandson!"

He withdrew a step to allow Germain to face Cyrene.

The condemned man fell upon his knees and broke into sobs.

"Speak, housekeeper's son!" the Admiral cried exultantly.

"You are a devil!" screamed Cyrene to him, and bent down her arms to
Germain.

To her bitter surprise the latter shrank back, and seizing her hand
covered it with kisses instead.

"No," he sobbed, "no, Madame Baroness; it is all true--I am not your
equal. I am baseborn, an impostor, an adventurer, the son of the peasant
and the servant, the grandson of the butcher. I am no de Lincy nor
Repentigny. My titles were false, my credit stolen, my position came to
me by accident, and my defence was one long falsehood. De Lery was
right. In him I wronged a man of honour, and my retribution is the
judgment of God. Forgive me all the awful wrong I have done you. Forgive
me as a creature whose only excuse has been an irresistible worship of
even your footsteps."

"Stop!" the Admiral cried. "Citizeness, ponder your treatment by this
varlet, who has deceived you, besmirched your life, and contaminated
your hand. Another career is yours; leave him to his punishment."

The words of the two men reached her, but their meaning was not
credible. Her lover--her Germain, her knight--a deceiver, an impostor?
She could not realise it. Then the truth of the scene rushed over her;
its logic became inescapable.

"Oh," she wailed in one long, agonised moan, sobbing and writhing in the
intensity of her torture, "how can I bear this?"

"Come," said the Admiral, but she was oblivious to all except the storm
of her distress.

"Come," repeated the Admiral, but she heard not.

"Come," repeated he once more impatiently; but her tear-filled eyes were
fixed upon Germain. The horror of his falsity was strong within her, but
his chivalry and tenderness throughout their long association could not
be so quickly forgotten, nor the bonds of her affection so instantly
blotted out. The mystery of his long sorrow dawned upon her, and his
utter self-accusation appealed to her pity. Their differences of rank
became as nothing.

"Come away," said the Admiral again, with soft-uttered persuasiveness.

Cyrene's nature, in those moments, had felt, thought, concluded with
lightning swiftness. Her soul swept through a great arc of intuition.

"No, no, there is somet