She put down her feet, smoothed her dress, and stood up, while Dossonville, rising, said peremptorily: "Where are you going now?" "Home. Give me your arm. You were too strong; I am tired." "Nicole," Dossonville began, in the hope of diverting her mood, "let us reason a little. That is not the Revolution: that is the scum. Judge it not by that." "You say that," she answered wearily--"you?" "Aye, the Revolution has proved too immense, and the leaders too weak. It has rolled over them; but the world is its path, and time will right it." But Nicole, despite all his artifices, refused to say another word until in the Rue Maugout he cried sternly: "Nicole, what do you intend to do?" "Is that so difficult to guess?" "Nicole! You are not going to take your life!" "My life?" she answered, shaking her head. "That is all that is left to me to use." "Javogues's?" She took his hands, smiling, and said: "To-night I was mad and you could stop me; now I am calm and you can do nothing. Good night. Forgive me if I have endangered your life. Good night, my friend, good night." * * * * * From the profound sleep of exhaustion Nicole, the next morning, struggled to open her eyes with the echo of Goursac's name sounding in her ears. "Nicole! Hé, Citoyenne Nicole!" She rushed to the window, and, leaning far out, beheld below in the misty court the abhorrent figures of the three Tapedures. At her appearance they sent up the exultant shout: "Goursac dies to-day!" "To-day," she repeated dully, watching their departure without emotion. It was still early, and the weak sun, filtering through the fogs of the November morning, cast yellow shadows where shadows showed at all. Silent and calm, the girl withdrew and began to dress. Within her soul the torment of the last days had given place to quiet. What she had recoiled from doing as an individual now appeared easy to her as the instrument of a high vengeance. In her now were the revolt of womanhood, the anger of the Christian, and the resolution of a Charlotte Corday, which is the resolution of a people. Slowly and with great care she dressed, examining herself often, selecting her best attire, and as she dressed she began to sing, wondering the while that she could feel so light-hearted. From the bureau she took her dagger and a ring that Barabant had left, slipping it on her finger, saying wistfully: "Poor Barabant. I might have betrayed you. Ah, I shall make reparation." In the elevation of her soul he seemed very distant, and the room of her happiness, as she paused meditatively, unreal and no more a part of her life. She went to the bed and knelt, closing her eyes and stretching up her clasped hands. Suddenly she took the dagger from her breast and placed it as a cross before her, fastening her eyes upon it as her lips repeated her prayers.