heard his prayer. An hour before that appointed
for the execution, he was seized with so violent
a fever, that he was incapable of performing
his office, and he died before another
executioner could be found to end the days of the
miserable criminal. All this my father told me,
very briefly but very plainly, and he did well;
it relieved me of the horror with which I
must otherwise have remembered that unhappy
young man. Death is the great absolver.
Death is the great deliverer. He has the keys
of liberty, and unlocks its gates.

My father was not my aunt's heir; we
left her house as soon as I was able to travel,
and Monsieur Pierre's name was no more
mentioned in my hearing. But I did not forget
him. I prayed for him. I remembered him. I
blessed him for the good he had done me and
had not lived to finish. Years later, I
succeeded in learning the whole of his sad story. I
had it from a priest, who little guessed all that
Monsieur Pierre's name recalled to me. He
had known him from his childhood, and spoke
of him with reverence and pity.

"'It had pleased God,' said the abbé, 'to
bestow on this young man, the son of an ignoble
and blood-stained race, two of his choicest gifts:
a noble heart and a handsome person. How
did he come by them? He was unlike either of
his parents, and, neither in mind nor in person,
did any of his brothers or sisters resemble him.
There is a tradition in his native city that, two
hundred years ago, a gentleman of good and
honourable parentage was driven, by a crime
he had committed, to accept the post of
common executioner, and that from him this young
man was descended. I have often wondered
whether the nobleness, the truth, the manly
gifts, I saw in him, were derived from some
remote ancestor—some Bayard of ancient
chivalry, who lived fearless and died stainless.
There are streams which hide in the earth,
which flow in darkness for miles, which then
come forth again in sweet and pure waters. Is
it so with man? Do certain virtues and
attributes lie dormant for generations, at last to
reappear? Is this why the noblest stems often
bear foul fruit, and why the fairest flowers are
seen to blossom from evil weeds? God knows.
It is a great mystery; but though you will
scarcely believe me, madam, this young man was
all I say: a Christian hero. He had been
accustomed, from his youth upward, to contemplate
the hard fate to which he was destined, and he
made no effort to avoid it. He was poor, and
burdened with his father's children by a second
marriage. Society was closed against him, and
escape by concealment was impossible to one of
such integrity that he could not deceive, nor tell
a lie. He was deeply religious, and resolved
to stay where Providence had placed him.
He tried to regard himself as the blameless
instrument of human justice, innocent as the axe
he was to wield; but though his was a nature
of great strength, he overestimated its powers.
His father had been dead a year, when he was
first called upon to exercise his office. He lived
in such seclusion, that he did not even know that
a criminal was under trial for his life, until he
learned that sentence of death had been recorded
against that criminal. It proved a double
sentence. On the morning appointed for the execution,
the unhappy young man was taken ill; and
he died three days later, resigned, nay, happy.'

"And now, my friend," said the countess,
with a smile, "you know why I bought that
Velasquez, and why I like it. The original
of that portrait was a gentleman of noble
birth and noble life, who fought bravely for
his country, and died in her cause. His
name is kept in her records, his bones rest in
one of her Moorish cathedrals, and ancient
banners, taken from her foes, hang over his
marble effigy. To crown all, a great painter
left this semblance of him. It has passed
through famous collections, has been catalogued,
described, and engraved, again and again. The
whole world knows that pale and manly face,
that look of incomparable dignity; but
something which the world does not know, I do. I
know that one who bore this Spanish soldier's
likeness, also possessed his virtues. I know that
he lived in infamy, and died in sorrow, and I
know that he loved me as I have never since
been loved. My husband was very fond of me,
to be sure; but he did not adore me. When
I became a young and childless widow, I had
plenty of suitors; but adoration I never won
again. There is nothing so rare as the pure, lofty,
deep worship of one human being for another."

I protest, reader, that I had never disputed
this proposition in the least. However, I let
the dear countess have her way—the only wise
plan with a woman—and I merely said:

"My dear madam, I cannot tell you how
much I have been interested in this romantic
episode of your youth." (I could not say less, you
know, reader.) "But allow me to put a question
to you: how came your parents to trust you to the
skill of that same unhappy Monsieur Pierre?"

"Ah, to be sure! I forgot to tell you that.
You must know that in those dark times
there existed a strongly rooted belief in the
surgical skill of an executioner. He was held
to possess it 'in virtue of his office.' I am
bound to say that some of those men were
really skilful. Monsieur Pierre, though so
young, was celebrated throughout all France,
and deserved his fame. People flocked to him;
but if he had given up his post, he would have
been deserted, and he knew it. Superstition
itself combined against him, and kept him
chained to his hard destiny, until Death came
and set the captive free."

MR CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS.

MR CHARLES DICKENS will read in Manchester
on Thursday evening April 26th; in Liverpool on Friday
evening April 27th, and Saturday afternoon April 28th;
and in London, at ST JAMES'S HALL, on Tuesday May
1st; and at the CRYSTAL PALACE on Wednesday the 2nd.