"Shrive her yourself, Gougon; few know the mummeries better!" cried a voice. "Is there not one here can remember a prayer, or even a verse of the offices," said Gougon, with a well-affected horror in his voice. "Yes, yes, I do," cried I, my zeal overcoming all sense of the mockery in which the words were spoken; "I know them all by heart, and can repeat them from 'lux beatissima' down to 'hora mortis;'" and as if to gain credence for my self-laudation, I began at once to recite in the sing-song tone of the seminary, "Salve, mater salvatoris, Fons salutis, vas honoris: Scala coeli porta et via Salve semper, O, Maria!" It is possible I should have gone on to the very end, if the uproarious laughter which rung around had not stopped me. "There's a brave youth!" cried Gougon, pointing toward me, with mock admiration. "If it ever come to pass--as what may not in these strange times?--that we turn to priest-craft again, thou shalt be the first archbishop of Paris. Who taught thee that famous canticle?" "The Père Michel," replied I, in no way conscious of the ridicule bestowed upon me; "the Père Michel of St. Blois." The old lady lifted up her head at these words, and her dark eyes rested steadily upon me; and then, with a sign of her hand, she motioned to me to come over to her. "Yes; let him come," said Gougon, as if answering the half-reluctant glances of the crowd. And now I was assisted to descend, and passed along over the heads of the people till I was placed upon the scaffold. Never can I forget the terror of that moment, as I stood within a few feet of the terrible guillotine, and saw beside me the horrid basket, splashed with recent blood. "Look not at these things, child," said the old lady, as she took my hand and drew me toward her, "but listen to me, and mark my words well." "I will, I will," cried I, as the hot tears rolled down my cheeks. "Tell the Père--you will see him to-night--tell him that I have changed my mind, and resolved upon another course, and that he is not to leave Paris. Let them remain. The torrent runs too rapidly to last. This can not endure much longer. We shall be among the last victims! You hear me, child?" "I do, I do," cried I, sobbing. "Why is not the Père Michel with you now?" "Because he is suing for my pardon; asking for mercy, where its very name is a derision. Kneel down beside me, and repeat the 'angelus.'" I took off my cap, and knelt down at her feet, reciting, in a voice broken by emotion, the words of the prayer. She repeated each syllable after me, in a tone full and unshaken, and then stooping, she took up the lily which lay in my cap. She pressed it passionately to her lips; two or three times passionately. "Give it to her; tell her I kissed it at my last moment. Tell her--"