and write before them. As I dipped my pen in the ink with a shaking hand, and surveyed the white paper with eyes half-blinded and overflowing, one of my judges began mincingly to apologize for the pain he caused.
"Nous agissons dans l'intêret de la verité. Nous ne voulons pas vous blesser," said he.
Scorn gave me nerve. I only answered,—
"Dictate, Monsieur."
Rochemorte named this theme: "Human Justice."
Human Justice! What was I to make of it? Blank, cold abstraction, unsuggestive to me of one inspiring idea; and there stood M. Emanuel, sad as Saul, and stern as Joab, and there triumphed his accusers.
At these two I looked. I was gathering my courage to tell them that I would neither write nor speak another word for their satisfaction, that their theme did not suit, nor their presence inspire me, and that, notwithstanding, whoever threw the shadow of a doubt on M. Emanuel's honour, outraged that truth of which they had announced themselves the champions: I meant to utter all this, I say, when, suddenly, a light darted on memory.
