d to summon those condemned to die. Heart-rending
shrieks and despairing farewells attended these separations; the
executioner led away his victims, and all was over. Those who remained
filled up the ranks, and, looking at one another with an anguish that
deprived them of none of their courage, whispered:

"Who of us will die to-morrow?"

But a secret flame burned in every heart, imparting strength to the weak
and resignation to the strong. Cowardice was as rare as voluntary
sacrifice was common; and that which rendered the sight of such
fortitude and courage in the presence of danger still more touching, was
the tender sympathy that united all the prisoners, without regard to
former differences in social position.

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon when Dolores, reassured by her
interview with Coursegol, made her appearance in the hall frequented by
the inmates of the prison. More than a hundred persons had gathered
there. They were now scattered about in little groups; and the
conversation was very animated. Here sat an ancient dowager, delighting
some gentlemen with piquant anecdotes of the Court of Louis XV.; there,
stood a jovial priest, composing rhymes for the amusement of a
half-dozen young girls; at a little distance were several statesmen,
earnestly discussing the recent acts of the Convention--all doing their
best to kill time, as travellers detained at some wayside inn strive to
divert one another, while they wait for the sunshine that will enable
them to pursue their journey.

Dolores was not remarked at first among the crowd of prisoners. Each day
brought so many new faces there that one more unfortunate excited little
comment. But soon this young girl, who seemed to be entirely alone, and
who gazed half-timidly, half-curiously, at the scene before her,
attracted the attention of several prisoners. A woman, endowed with such
rare loveliness of form and feature as Nature had bestowed upon Dolores,
cannot long remain unnoticed. Her golden hair lay in soft rings upon her
smooth, open brow, and drooped in heavy braids upon her white neck. Her
dark brown dress and the little fichu knotted at the waist behind, were
very simple in texture and in make; but she wore them with such grace,
and there was such an air of elegance and distinction in her bearing,
that she soon became an object of general curiosity.

"What! So young, so beautiful, and in prison!" said one.

"Youth and beauty do not soften the