and stone-paved floor struck a death-chill like that of the grave, were
confined the Widow Martial, and her daughter Calabash.

The harsh, angular features of the widow stood out amidst the imperfect
light of the place, cold, pale, and immovable as those of a marble
statue. Deprived of the use of her hands, which were fastened beneath
her black dress by the strait-waistcoat of the prison, formed of coarse
gray cloth and tightly secured behind her, she requested her cap might
be taken off, complaining of an oppression and burning sensation in her
head; this done, a mass of long, grizzled hair fell over her shoulders.

Seated at the side of her bed, she gazed earnestly and fixedly at her
daughter, who was separated from her by the width of the dungeon, and,
wearing like her mother the customary strait-waistcoat, was partly
reclining and partly supporting herself against the wall, her head bent
forward on her breast, her eye dull and motionless, and her breathing
quick and irregular. From time to time a convulsive tremor rattled her
lower jaw, while her features, spite of their livid hue, remained
comparatively calm and tranquil.

Within the cell, and immediately beneath the wicket of the entrance
door, was seated an old, gray-headed soldier, whose rough, sunburnt
features betokened his having felt the scorch of many climes, and borne
his part in numerous campaigns. His duty was to keep constant watch over
the condemned prisoners.

"How piercing cold it is here!" exclaimed Calabash; "yet my eyes burn in
my head, and I have a burning, quenchless thirst!" Then addressing the
bald-headed veteran, she said, "Water! Pray give me a drink of water!"

The old soldier filled a cup of water from a pitcher placed near him,
and held it to her lips. Eagerly swallowing the draught, she bowed her
head in token of thankfulness, and the soldier proceeded to offer the
same beverage to the mother.

"Would you not like to moisten your lips?" asked he, kindly.

With a rough, repulsive gesture, she intimated her disinclination, and
the old man sat down again.

"What's o'clock?" inquired Calabash.

"Nearly half past four," replied the soldier.

"Only three hours!" replied Calabash, with a sinister and gloomy smile.
"Three hours more! And then--" She could proceed no further.

The widow shrugged up her shoulders. Her daughter divined her meaning,
and said, "Ah, mother, you have so much more courage than I have,--you
never give way, yo