never been so excited in his life; and he pleaded with as
imploring an earnestness as though he had been the suspected criminal,
not to be accused with having one shadow of shameful doubt against his
friend. His words would have told nothing except bewilderment to one who
should have been a stranger to the subject on which he spoke; yet Cecil
never asked even what he meant. There was no surprise upon his face,
no flush of anger, no expression of amaze or indignation; only the look
which had paralyzed Rock on his entrance; he stood still and mute.

The Seraph looked at him, a great dread seizing him lest he should have
seemed himself to cast this foul thing on his brother-in-arms; and in
that dread all the fierce fire of his freshly-loosened passion broke its
bounds.

"Damnation! Cecil, can't you hear me! A hound has brought against you
the vilest charge that ever swindlers framed: an infamy that he deserves
to be shot for, as if he were a dog. He makes me stand before you as if
I were your accuser; as if I doubted you; as if I lent an ear one second
to this loathsome lie. I sent for you to confront him, and to give him
up to the law. Stand out, you scoundrel, and let us see how you dare
look at us now!"

He swung round at the last words, and signed to Baroni to rise from the
couch were he sat. The Jew advanced slowly, softly.

"If your lordship will pardon me, you have scarcely made it apparent
what the matter is for which the gentleman is wanted. You have scarcely
explained to him that it is on a charge of forgery."

The Seraph's eyes flashed on him with a light like a lion's, and his
right hand clinched hard.

"By my life! If you say that word again you shall be flung in the street
like the cur you are, let me pay what I will for it! Cecil, why don't
you speak?"

Bertie had not moved; not a breath escaped his lips. He stood like a
statue, deadly pale in the gaslight; when the figure of Baroni rose
up and came before him, a great darkness stole on his face--it was a
terrible bitterness, a great horror, a loathing disgust; but it was
scarcely criminality, and it was not fear. Still he stood perfectly
silent--a guilty man, any other than his loyal friend would have said:
guilty, and confronted with a just accuser. The Seraph saw that look,
and a deadly chill passed over him, as it had done at the Jew's first
charge--not doubt; such heresy to his creeds, such shame to his
comrade and his corps could not be in him