A strange, thrilling silence fell upon all the Court. The jurats shifted
in their seats with excitement. The Bailly, in a hoarse, dry voice,
said:

"We must have proof. There must be record as well as witness."

From near the great doorway came a voice saying: "The record is here,"
and Detricand stepped forward, in his uniform of the army of the Vendee.

A hushed murmur ran round the room. The jurats whispered to each other.

"Who are you, monsieur?" said the Bailly.

"I am Detricand, Prince of Vaufontaine," he replied, "for whom the
Comtesse Chantavoine will vouch," he added in a pained voice, and bowed
low to her and to Guida. "I am but this hour landed. I came to Jersey
on this very matter."

He did not wait for the Bailly to reply, but began to tell of the death
of Lorenzo Dow, and, taking from his pocket the little black journal,
opened it and read aloud the record written therein by the dead
clergyman. Having read it, he passed it on to the Greffier, who handed
it up to the Bailly. Another moment's pause ensued. To the most
ignorant and casual of the onlookers the strain was great; to those
chiefly concerned it was supreme. The Bailly and the jurats whispered
together. Now at last a spirit of justice was roused in them. But the
law's technicalities were still to rule.

The Bailly closed the book, and handed it back to the Greffier with the