eing borne in triumph to
Saint-Cloud by those who would fain re-erect the tyrant's throne in his
favour. The dearness of food, the depreciation of the _assignats_ are
the direct result of manoeuvres carried out in our own homes, beneath
our very eyes, by the agents of the foreigners. In the name of public
safety I call upon the new juryman, our fellow-citizen, to show no pity
to conspirators and traitors."

As he left the tribune, cries rose among the audience: "Down with the
Revolutionary Tribunal! Down with the Moderates!"

A stout, rosy-faced man, the _citoyen_ Dupont senior, a joiner living in
the Place de Thionville, mounted the Tribune, announcing that he wished
to ask a question of the new juror. Then he demanded of Gamelin what
attitude he meant to take up in the matter of the Brissotins and of the
widow Capet.

Evariste was timid and unpractised in public speaking. But indignation
gave him eloquence. He rose with a pale face and said in a voice of
suppressed emotion:

"I am a magistrate. I am responsible to my conscience only. Any promise
I might make you would be against my duty, which is to speak in the
Court and hold my peace elsewhere. I have ceased to know you. It is mine
to give judgment; I know neither friends nor enemies."

The meeting, made up like all meetings of divers elements and subject to
sudden and incalculable moods, approved these sentiments. But the
_citoyen_ Dupont returned to the charge; he could not forgive Gamelin
for having secured a post he had coveted himself.

"I understand," he said, "I even approve the juror's scruples. They say
he is a patriot; it is for him to examine his conscience and see if it
permits him to sit on a tribunal intended to destroy the enemies of the
Republic and resolved to spare them. There are circumstances in which a
good citizen is bound to repudiate all complicity. Is it not averred
that more than one juror of this tribunal has let himself be corrupted
by the gold of the accused, and that the President Montane falsified the
procedure to save the head of the woman Corday?"

At the words the hall resounded with vehement applause. The vaults were
still reverberating with the uproar when Fortune Trubert mounted the
tribune. He had grown thinner than ever in the last few months. His face
was pale and the cheek-bones seemed ready to pierce the reddened skin;
his eyes had a glassy look under the inflamed lids.

"_Citoyens_," he began, in a weak, breathless