autiful face, marred as it was
by sickness and suffering--in the unconquerable dignity, which dirt and
raggedness were powerless to hide, the fatal nobility of his birth and
breeding were betrayed. When he returned to the anteroom, he did not
positively know his fate; but in his mind there was a moral certainty
that left him no hope.

The room was filled with other prisoners awaiting trial; and as he
entered, his eyes wandered round it to see if there were any familiar
faces. They fell upon two figures standing with their backs to him--a
tall, fierce-looking man, who, despite his height and fierceness, had a
restless, nervous despondency expressed in all his movements; and a
young girl who leant on his arm as if for support, but whose steady
quietude gave her more the air of a supporter. Without seeing their
faces, and for no reasonable reason, Monsieur the Viscount decided with
himself that they were the Baron and his daughter, and he begged the man
who was conducting him, for a moment's delay. The man consented. France
was becoming sick of unmitigated carnage, and even the executioners
sometimes indulged in pity by way of a change.

As Monsieur the Viscount approached the two they turned round, and he
saw her face--a very fair and very resolute one, with ashen hair and
large eyes. In common with almost all the faces in that room, it was
blanched with suffering; and it is fair to say, in common with many of
them, it was pervaded by a lofty calm. Monsieur the Viscount never for
an instant doubted his own conviction; he drew near and said in a low
voice, "Mademoiselle de St. Claire!"

The Baron looked first fierce, and then alarmed. His daughter's face
illumined; she turned her large eyes on the speaker, and said simply,

"Monsieur le Vicomte?"

The Baron apologized, commiserated, and sat down on a seat near, with a
look of fretful despair; and his daughter and Monsieur the Viscount were
left standing together. Monsieur the Viscount desired to say a great
deal and could say very little. The moments went by and hardly a word
had been spoken.

Valerie asked if he knew his fate.

"I have not heard it," he said; "but I am morally certain. There can be
but one end in these days."

She sighed. "It is the same with us. And if you must suffer, Monsieur, I
wish that we may suffer together. It would comfort my father--and me."

Her composure vexed him. Just, too, when he was sensible that the desire
of life was making a