He held a
newspaper in his hand, for sleep was out of the question. He had been
suffering severely during the day, but the pain had passed and only
weariness remained. His face was yet drawn with the memory of it, and his
eyes were heavily shadowed. But the inherent pluck of the man was still
apparent. His pride of bearing had not waned.
He was reading with close attention a report upon the chief event of the
hour--the trial of Guillaume Rodolphe at Valpre. It had been in progress
for four days, and was likely to last for several more. The report he
read was from the pen of Trevor Mordaunt, an account clear and direct as
the man himself. So far the evidence had seemed to turn in Bertrand's
favour, and, his protestations notwithstanding, it was impossible not to
feel a quickening of the pulses as he realized this fact. Would they ever
send for him? He asked himself. Would they ever desire to do justice to
the man they had degraded?
It was evident that the writer of the account before him thought so.
However Mordaunt's opinion of the man himself had altered, his conviction
on the subject of his innocence of that primary crime had plainly
remained unshaken.
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