Our names were called, and the meats placed upon the table. Just as the head-turnkey was about to give the order to be seated, a loud commotion, and a terrible uproar in the court beneath, drew every one to the window. It was a hurdle which, emerging from an archway, broke down from overcrowding; and now the confusion of prisoners, gaolers, and sentries, with plunging horses and screaming sufferers, made a scene of the wildest uproar. Chained two by two, the prisoners were almost helpless, and in their efforts to escape injury made the most terrific struggle. Such were the instincts of life in those on the very road to death! Resolving to profit by the moment of confusion, I hastened to the window, where alone, unmoved by the general commotion, sat the Père Michel. He lifted his glassy eyes as I came near, and in a low, mild voice said-- ‘Thanks, my good boy, but I have no money to pay thee; nor does it matter much now--it is but another day. I could have cried as I heard these sad words; but mastering emotions which would have lost time so precious, I drew close, and whispered-- ‘Père Michel, it is I, your own Maurice.’ He started, and a deep flush suffused his cheek; and then stretching out his hand, he pushed back my cap, and parted the hair of my forehead, as if doubting the reality of what he saw; when with a weak voice he said-- ‘No, no, thou art not my own Maurice. His eyes shone not with that worldly lustre--thine do; his brow was calm, and fair as children’s should be--thine is marked with manhood’s craft and subtlety; and yet, thou art like him.’ A low sob broke from me as I listened to his words, and the tears gushed forth, and rolled in torrents down my cheeks. ‘Yes,’ cried he, clasping me in his arms, ‘thou art my own dear boy. I know thee now; but how art thou here, and thus?’ and he touched my blouse as he spoke. ‘I came to see and to save you, père,’ said I. ‘Nay, do not try to discourage me, but rather give me all your aid. I saw her--I was with her in her last moments at the guillotine; she gave me a message for you, but this you shall never hear till we are without these walls.’ ‘It cannot be, it cannot be,’ said he sorrowfully. ‘It can and shall be,’ said I resolutely. ‘I have merely assumed this dress for the occasion; I have friends, powerful and willing to protect me. Let us change robes--give me that “soutane,” and put on the blouse. When you leave this, hasten to the old garden of the chapel, and wait for my coming--I will join you there before night.’ ‘It cannot be,’ replied he again. ‘Again I say, it shall, and must be. Nay, if you still refuse, there shall be two victims, for I will tear off the dress here where I stand, and openly declare myself the son of the Royalist Tiernay.’