At about eight o’clock, as I was sitting on my bed—if that inclined plane of wood, worn by the form of many a former prisoner, could deserve the name—a sergeant entered with the prison allowance of bread and water. He placed it beside me without speaking, and stood for a few seconds gazing at me. “What age art thou, lad?” said he, in a voice of compassionate interest. “Something over fifteen, I believe,” replied I. “Hast father and mother?” “Both are dead!” “Uncles or aunts living?” “Neither.” “Hast any friends who could help thee?” “That might depend upon what the occasion for help should prove, for I have one friend in the world.” “Who is he?” “Colonel Mahon, of the Curaissiers.” “I never heard of him—is he here?” “No; I left him at Nancy; but I could write to him.” “It would be too late, much too late.” “How do you mean—too late?” asked I, tremblingly. “Because it is fixed for to-morrow evening,” replied he, in a low, hesitating voice. “What? the—the—” I could not say the word, but merely imitated the motion of presenting and firing. He nodded gravely in acquiescence. “What hour is it to take place?” asked I. “After evening parade. The sentence must be signed by General Berthier, and he will not be here before that time.” “It would be too late, then, sergeant,” said I, musing, “far too late. Still I should like to write the letter; I would like to thank him for his kindness in the past, and show him, too, that I have not been either unworthy or ungrateful. Could you let me have paper and pen, sergeant?” “I can venture so far, lad; but I can not let thee have a light; it is against orders; and during the day thou’lt be too strictly watched.” “No matter let me have the paper and I’ll try to scratch a few lines in the dark; and thou’lt post it for me, sergeant? I ask thee as a last favor to do this.” “I promise it,” said he, laying his hand on my shoulder. After standing for a few minutes thus in silence, he started suddenly and left the cell.