the door. "Remember all you
owe to my father--remember our talk on that bench by the river--remember
what you said to me yourself on the night of the arrest--don't wait to
think--save her, and leave me without a word! If I die alone, I can die
as a man should; if she goes to the scaffold by my side, my heart
will fail me--I shall die the death of a coward! I have lived for her
life--let me die for it, and I die happy!"

He tried to say more, but the violence of his agitation forbade it. He
could only shake the arm he held again and again, and point to the
bench on which Rose sat--her head sunk on her bosom, her hands crossed
listlessly on her lap.

"There are two armed sentinels outside--the windows are barred--you are
without weapons--and even if you had them, there is a guard-house within
hail on one side of you, and the tribunal on the other. Escape from this
room is impossible," answered Lomaque.

"Impossible!" repeated the other, furiously. "You traitor! you coward!
can you look at her sitting there helpless, her very life ebbing away
already with every minute that passes, and tell me coolly that escape is
impossible?"

In the frenzy of his grief and despair, he lifted his disengaged hand
threateningly while he spoke. Lomaque caught him by the wrist, and drew
him toward a window open at the top.

"You are not in your right senses," said the chief agent, firmly;
"anxiety and apprehension on your sister's account have shaken your
mind. Try to compose yourself, and listen to me. I have something
important to say--" (Trudaine looked at him incredulously.) "Important,"
continued Lomaque, "as affecting your sister's interests at this
terrible crisis."

That last appeal had an instantaneous effect. Trudaine's outstretched
hand dropped to his side, and a sudden change passed over his
expression.

"Give me a moment," he said, faintly; and turning away, leaned against
the wall and pressed his burning forehead on the chill, damp stone. He
did not raise his head again till he had mastered himself, and could say
quietly, "Speak; I am fit to hear you, and sufficiently in my senses to
ask your forgiveness for what I said just now."

"When I left the tribunal and entered this room," Lomaque began in a
whisper, "there was no thought in my mind that could be turned to good
account, either for your sister or for you. I was fit for nothing but
to deplore the failure of the confession which I came to St. Lazare to
suggest to