n
he loved.

"How was he arrested?" he asked, as much for the sake of knowing as to
recover himself.

She told what she knew, and read Florentin's letter.

"He is a good boy, your brother," he said, as if talking to himself.

"You will save him?"

"How can I?"

This cry escaped him without her understanding its weight; without her
divining the expression of anxious curiosity in his glance.

"To whom shall I address myself, if not to you? Are you not everything
to me? My support, my guide, my counsel, my God!"

She explained what she wished him to do. Once more an exclamation
escaped Saniel.

"You wish me to go to the judge--me?"

"Who, better than you, can explain how things happened?"

Saniel, who had recovered from his first feeling of surprise, did not
flinch. Evidently she spoke with entire honesty, suspecting nothing, and
it would be folly to look for more than she said.

"But I cannot present myself before a judge in such away," he said. "It
is he who sends for those he wants to see."

"Why can you not go to his court, since you know things which will throw
light upon it?"

"Is it truly easy to go before this court? In going before it, I make
myself the defender of your brother."

"That is exactly what I ask of you."

"And in presenting myself as his defender, I take away the weight of my
deposition, which would have more authority if it were that of a simple
witness."

"But when will you be asked for this deposition? Think of Florentin's
sufferings during this time, of mamma's, and of mine. He may lose his
head; he may kill himself. His spirit is not strong, nor is mamma's. How
will they bear all that the newspapers will publish?"

Saniel hesitated a moment.

"Well, I will go," he said. "Not this evening, it is too late, but
tomorrow."

"Oh, dear Victor!" she exclaimed, pressing him in her arms, "I knew that
you would save him. We will owe you his life, as we owe you mamma's, as
I owe you happiness. Am I not right to say you are my God?"

After she was gone he had a moment of repentance in which he regretted
this weakness; for it was a weakness, a stupid sentimentalism, unworthy
of a sensible man, who should not permit himself to be thus touched and
involved. Why should he go and invite danger when he could be quiet,
without any one giving him a thought? Was it not folly? The law wanted a
criminal. Public curiosity demanded one. Why take away the one that
they had? If he succeeded, wo