have now lost
heart and hope, and look upon death as my good angel.
My death will be sharp and sudden, without pain. I shall fall
gloriously, like a soldier, like a conquered sovereign....
If you cannot, dearest, bear up under your load of sorrow,
if God in His mercy soon reunites us by your death, I will
bless His fatherly hand, which now seems very heavy upon
me. Adieu, adieu!
YOUR POOR MAX.

He kissed this letter, folded into it the light silky lock of his
own hair, and placed it with other letters which he had written
to his mother and friends. They were all in French, and written
in a clear, firm, regular hand. His noble nature shone in every
line. They give the key to the irresistible personal sympathy he
inspired in all who knew him. His enemies were aware of this, and
no judge or general who had ever known him sat on his court-martial.

As six o'clock was striking on the morning of June 19, the door
of the prison was unbarred. "I am ready," said Maximilian.

As he stepped forth from the door of the convent, he exclaimed:
"What a beautiful morning! I have always fancied I should like
to die in sunshine,--on a summer day."

He entered the carriage in waiting. Miramon and Mejia followed
him, with the priest who attended them in their last moments. They
were escorted by a body of four thousand men, and were driven to
the same rocky height on which they had been captured, called the
Cerro della Campana. They sat upright in the carriage during the
drive, with proud smiles upon their faces. They were carefully
dressed, as if for an occasion of festivity. The population of
the place was all abroad to see them pass, and looked at them with
silent pity and admiration. The calmness and self-possession of the
emperor, about to die, touched even the most indifferent spectators.
The women freely shed tears.

Maximilian was a handsome, striking-looking man. His beautiful light
hair was parted by a straight line from his forehead to the nape
of his neck. His blue eyes were clear and soft, with a beseeching
look in them. His hands were beautifully white, his fingers elegant
and taper.

As they neared the place of execution, General Mejia suddenly turned
pale, covered his face, and with a sob fell back in his place in the
carriage. He had caught sight of his wife, agonized, dishevelled,
with her baby in her arms, and all the appearance of a madwoman.

The party arrived at t