t
is my hand I offer you--only that."

Somebody near Rufin spoke a brief order and the three were still. He
saw Giaconi's intent face across their shoulders, his open hand
reaching forward between them. He clasped it silently.

The priest had set the girl on her knees before the improvised altar
and stood beside her in silence. The three, with no word spoken,
proceeded with their business. With deft speed they lashed their
man's hands behind his back, forcing them back with rough skill. The
chief of them motioned his subordinates to take him by the elbows and
signed to the priest with his hand. The priest came forward, holding
the crucifix, and took his place close to the prisoner. For a final
touch of the grotesque the executioner produced and put on a tall
silk hat.

"March!" he said, and they took the condemned man toward the door. He
twisted his head round for a last glance at the room.

"Good-bye, little one!" he cried loudly. The kneeling girl only
moaned.

"Good-bye, M'sieur Rufin."

Rufin stepped forward and bowed mechanically.

"Adieu, Maitre," he answered.

He saw that the condemned man's eyes lightened, a flush rose in his
face; he smiled as if in triumph. Then they passed out, and Rufin,
after standing for a moment in uncertainty, crossed the room and
knelt beside the girl, with his hands pressed to his ears.

VIII

"PARISIENNE"

"At least," said the Comtesse, still staring at the brisk fire in the
steel grate--"at least he saw them with his own eyes."

She was thinking aloud, and Elsie Gray, her distant relative and
close companion, only looked up without reply. The Comtesse's face
stood in profile against the bright appointments of the fireplace,
delicate and serene; the tall salon, with its white panels gleaming
discreetly in the light of the candles, made a chaste frame for her
fragile presence. The window-curtains had been drawn to shut out the
evening which shed its damp melancholy over the Faubourg, and to the
girl the great, still room seemed like a stage set for a drama. She
sat on a stool beside the Comtesse's chair, her fingers busy with
many-colored skeins of silk, and the soft stir of the fire and the
tick of a little clock worked themselves into her patient thoughts.

"He was to come at nine, I think," said the Comtesse at last, without
turning her head.

"Yes," said Elsie, leaning forward to look at the little clock. "It
still wants twenty minutes."

The Comtesse nodd