call of one who cries in their midst, "Haro! Haro!"--that ancient relic
of the custom of Normandy and Rollo the Dane. To this hour the Jerseyman
maketh his cry unto Rollo, and the Royal Court--whose right to respond to
this cry was confirmed by King John and afterwards by Charles--must
listen, and every one must heed. That cry of Haro makes the workman drop
his tools, the woman her knitting, the militiaman his musket, the
fisherman his net, the schoolmaster his birch, and the ecrivain his
babble, to await the judgment of the Royal Court.

Every jurat fixed his eye upon Guida as though she had come to claim his
life. The Bailly's lips opened twice as though to speak, but no words
came. The Governor sat with hands clinched upon his chairarm. The crowd
breathed in gasps of excitement. The Comtesse Chantavoine looked at
Philip, looked at Guida, and knew that here was the opening of the scroll
she had not been able to unfold. Now she should understand that
something which had made the old Duc de Bercy with his last breath say,
Don't be afraid!

Philip stood moveless, his eyes steady, his face bitter, determined. Yet
there was in his look, fixed upon Guida, some strange mingling of pity
and purpose. It was as though two spirits were fighting in his face for
mastery. The Countess touched him upon the arm, but he took no notice.
Drawing back in her seat she looked at him and at Guida, as one might
watch the balances of justice weighing life and death. She could not
read this story, but one glance at the faces of the crowd round her made
her aware that here was a tale of the past which all knew in little or in
much.

"Haro! haro! A l'aide, mon Prince, on me fait tort!" What did she
mean, this woman with the exquisite face, alive with power and feeling,