"'It is the darkness of this accursed
place that makes us think it early,' said
another.

"All this time a parley was going on at the
door. Some one came in; not the gaoler—a
woman. The door was shut to and locked
behind her. She only advanced a step or
two; for it was too sudden a change, out of
the light into that dark shadow, for any one
to see clearly for the first few minutes.
Jacques had his eyes fairly open now; and
was wide awake now. It was Mademoiselle
de Créquy, looking bright, clear, and resolute.
The faithful heart of the old man read
that look like an open page. Her cousin should
not die there on her behalf, without at least
the comfort of her sweet presence.

"'Here he is,' he whispered, as her gown
would have touched him in passing, without
her perceiving him, in the heavy obscurity of
the place.

"'The good God bless you, my friend!'
she murmured, as she saw the attitude of the
old man, propped against a pillar, and holding
Clément in his arms, as if the young man
had been a helpless baby, while one of the
poor gardener's hands supported the broken
limb in the easiest position. Virginie sate
down by the old man, and held out her arms.
Softly she moved Clément's head to her own
shoulder; softly she transferred the task
of holding the arm to herself. Clément lay
on the floor, but she supported him, and
Jacques was at liberty to arise and stretch
and shake his stiff, weary old body. He then
sate down at a little distance, and watched
the pair until he fell asleep. Clément had
muttered 'Virginie,' as they half-roused
him by their movements out of his stupor;
but Jacques thought he was only dreaming;
nor did he seem fully awake when once his
eyes opened, and he looked full at Virginie's
face bending over him, and growing crimson
under his gaze, though she never stirred, for
fear of hurting him if she moved. Clément
looked in silence, until his heavy eyelids
came slowly down, and he fell into his
oppressive slumber again. Either he did not
recognise her, or she came in too completely
as a part of his sleeping visions for him to be
disturbed by her appearance there.

"When Jacques awoke it was full daylight
—at least as full as it would ever be in that
place. His breakfast—the gaol-allowance of
bread and vin ordinaire—was by his side.
He must have slept sotmdly. He looked for
his master. He and Virginie had recognised
each other now,—hearts, as well as appearance.
They were smiling into each other's
faces, as if that dull, vaulted room in the
grim Abbaye were the sunny gardens of
Versailles, with music and festivity all abroad.
Apparently they had much to say to each
other; for whispered questions and answers
never ceased.

"Virginie had made a sling for the poor broken
arm; nay, she had obtained two splinters
of wood in some way, and one of the
fellow-prisoners—having some knowledge of surgery
apparently—had set it. Jacques felt more
desponding by far than they did, for he was
suffering from the night he had passed, which
told upon his aged frame; while they must
have heard some good news, as it seemed to
him, so bright and happy did they look.
Yet Clément was still in bodily pain and
suffering, and Virginie was a prisoner in that
dreadful Abbaye, whence the only issue was
the guillotine, by her own act and deed. But
they were together: they loved: they
understood each other at length.

"When Virginie saw that Jacques was
awake, and languidly munching his breakfast,
she rose from the wooden stool on which
she was sitting, and went to him, holding out
both hands, and refusing to allow him to rise,
while she thanked him with pretty eagerness
for all his kindness to Monsieur. Monsieur
himself came towards him,—following
Virginie,—but with tottering steps, as if his
head was weak and dizzy, to thank the poor
old man, who, now on his feet, stood between
them, ready to cry while they gave him
credit for faithful actions which he felt to
have been almost involuntary on his part,
—for loyalty was like an instinct in the good
old days, before your educational cant had
come up. And so two days went on. The
only event was the morning call for the
victims, a certain number of whom were
summoned to the trial every day. And to be
tried was to be condemned. Every one of
the prisoners became grave, as the hour for
their summons approached. Most of the
victims went to their doom with uncomplaining
resignation, and, for awhile after their
departure, there was comparative silence in
the prison. But, by-and-by,—so said Jacques,
—the conversation or amusements began
again. Human nature cannot stand the
perpetual pressure of such keen anxiety, without
an effort to relieve itself by thinking of something
else. Jacques said that Monsieur and
Mademoiselle were for ever talking together
of the past days,—it was 'Do you remember
this?' or, 'Do you remember that?
'perpetually. He sometimes thought they forgot
where they were, and what was before them.
But Jacques did not, and every day he trembled
more and more as the list was called
over.

"The third morning of their incarceration,
the gaoler brought in a man whom Jacques
did not recognise, and therefore did not at
once observe; for he was waiting, as in duty
bound, upon 'his master and his sweet young
lady (as he always called her in repeating
the story). He thought that the new
introduction was some friend of the gaoler, as the
two seemed well acquainted, and the former
stayed a few minutes talking with his visitor
before leaving him in the prison. So Jacques
was surprised when, after a short time had
elapsed, he looked round, and saw the fierce