place of another."

"A saint might utter words like those," he murmured. Then beholding her
cheerful, courageous and inspired with the holy enthusiasm of the
martyrs, he added: "I am glad to die with you. You will open the portals
of Heaven for me; and I will cling so closely to you, pure soul, that
they will let me follow you in."

Thus were these two souls elevated to the grandest heroism by the very
simplicity of their devotion. There was certainly not a drop of noble
blood in the veins of either of them, and yet they went to meet death
valiantly, like saints.

It was three o'clock, and a lovely winter's day. The sky was clear and
the sun radiant.

"We have fine weather for our journey to the scaffold," thought
Coursegol.

Dolores was absorbed in prayer. Her heart ascended to God in fervent
supplication that He would bless her sacrifice, and make it redound to
the peace and happiness of the two beloved friends that were left
behind. Suddenly, several men entered the hall: the executioner and his
assistants. Moans and cries of terror arose from the condemned.

"Already!" exclaimed a young woman, who had until now borne herself
courageously.

She fainted. She was half-dead with fear when she was carried up the
steps of the guillotine an hour later. Dolores lost none of her
composure on beholding the executioner. She quietly removed her hat; and
while the three assistants cut off the hair of the prisoners around her,
she unbound the magnificent golden tresses which enveloped her like a
rippling veil. There was a universal shudder when the scissors despoiled
that charming head of its superb adornment; and Coursegol could not
repress an exclamation of wrath at this act of barbarity. Dolores
checked him with a gesture.

"I would like to have my hair," she said to the assistant executioner,
pointing to the tresses lying upon the floor.

"It belongs to me," he responded, roughly. "That is the custom."

"Will this suffice to pay for it?" inquired Dolores, showing him a ring
that she wore upon one of her fingers.

"Undoubtedly."

"Very well, I will buy it then."

The man gathered up the golden curls and handed them to Dolores.

"It is a pity," she said, gently and with a tinge of sadness. "They
became me well."

It was her only sign of regret for the sad fate to which her youth and
beauty were condemned.

When she saw that the moment of departure was near at hand, she asked
to see Philip and Antoinette a