s young and of middle height. Dazzled by the light, and
suffering apparently from weakness, he paused, leaning for support
against the doorway. His eyes were bright, his sunken cheeks told of
fever or famine. His clothes stained and dusty, and his unkempt hair,
added to the wildness of his appearance. For a moment he and the owner
of the room glared at one another in speechless wonder. Then a name
sprang to the lips of each.

"Monsieur Mirande!" the younger man muttered.

"De Bercy!" exclaimed the other.

The stranger said no more, but shaking with agitation walked to a chair
and sat down. Mirande, his face rigid with passion, stood in silence and
watched him do it. Then the Republican found his voice.

"You villain!" he cried, advancing a step, his manner menacing. "Was it
not enough that you stole into my house and robbed me of my daughter?
Was it not enough that you led her to forfeit her life in your plots and
then left her to die? Was not this enough, that you now come and insult
me by your presence?"

The young man raised his hand in deprecation, but seemed unable to
reply. Mirande, gazing pitilessly at him, presently read his silence
aright, and an expression of cruel joy altered his features.

"I understand," he said grimly. "I see all now. You have been in hiding
here. To be sure, your name has been on the list of suspects these three
months. And you all the time have been starving like a rat behind the
panels! Well, you shall have food and wine. You shall eat, you shall
drink. I would not for the world have you cheat the guillotine."

He went to a cupboard as he spoke, and, taking from it bread and wine,
he placed them before the other. The young man made a slight gesture, as
though he would have refused them; but his pale face flushed with desire
negatived the action, the momentary resistance of his pride gave way,
and he ate and drank, sparingly, yet with the craving of a man
half-famished.

"I have not tasted food for three days," he murmured presently, looking
up with a glance of apology. The wine had already done its work. He
looked a different man. His hand was steady, his cheeks wore a more
healthy colour. "M. Chareloi hid me here," he went on, "but a week ago I
heard a disturbance in the house, and coming out when all was quiet I
found it empty and locked. I fear he was arrested."

"He was guillotined five days ago," the Girondin replied with brutal
frankness.

"Why? For what?" the young ma