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 on what the occasion for help should prove, for I have one friend in the world.’ ‘Who is he?’ ‘Colonel Mahon, of the Cuirassiers.’ ‘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 should 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 cannot let thee have a light, it is against orders; and during the day, thou ‘ll 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 favour 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. I now tried to eat my supper, but although resolved on behaving with a stout and unflinching courage throughout the whole sad event, I could not swallow a mouthful. A sense of choking stopped me at every attempt, and even the water I could only get down by gulps. The efforts I made to bear up seemed to have caused a species of hysterical excitement that actually rose to the height of intoxication, for I talked away loudly to myself, laughed and sung. I even jested and mocked myself on this sudden termination of a career that I used to anticipate as stored with future fame and rewards. At intervals, I have no doubt that my mind wandered far beyond the control of reason, but as constantly came back again to a full consciousness of my melancholy position, and the fate that awaited me. The noise of the key in the door silenced my ravings, and I sat motionless as the sergeant entered with the pen, ink, and paper, which he laid down upon the bed, and then as silently withdrew.