"Even if it should be so, mother, every one has not your courage. I have done all I could to imitate you. I have not listened to the priest, because you did not wish it. And yet I may have been wrong--for, in fine," added the condemned girl, shuddering, "_hereafter_--who knows? and _hereafter_ will be very soon." "In three hours." "How coldly you say that, mother! And yet it is true; we are here, both of us, not sick, not wishing to die, and yet in three hours----" "In three hours you will have died like a true Martial. You will have seen black, that's all; be bold, daughter." "It is not right for you to talk to your daughter in that way," said the old soldier, in a slow and grave tone; "you would have done much better to have allowed her to speak with the ordinary." The widow shrugged her shoulders with savage contempt, and, without turning her head, she continued: "Courage, daughter; we will show them that women have more firmness than these men, with their priests--the cowards!" "Commandant Leblon was the bravest of the third regiment of Chasseurs; I saw him covered with wounds in the breach of Saragossa, and he died making the sign of the cross," said the veteran. "You were his chaplain, then?" demanded the widow, with a savage burst of laughter. "I was his soldier," answered the veteran, mildly. "It was only to let you know that one can pray when about to die, without being a coward." Calabash looked attentively at this man with the bronzed visage, a perfect type of the soldier of the Empire; a deep scar furrowed his left cheek, and was lost in his large mustache. The simple words of this veteran, whose features, wounds, and red ribbon announced calm and tried bravery, profoundly struck the widow's daughter. She had refused the consolation of the priest, more from shame and fear of her mother, than from callousness. In her restless and dying thoughts, she compared the impious jesting of her mother with the piety of the soldier. Strong in this testimony, she thought she could listen without cowardice to those religious instincts which even intrepid men had obeyed. "In truth," said she, with anguish, "why did I not wish to hear the priest? there is no weakness in that. Besides, it would keep off my thoughts, and then, hereafter, who knows?" "Again!" said the widow, in a tone of withering scorn. "Time is wanting--it is a pity--you would be religious. The arrival of your brother Martial will finish your conversion. But he will not come; the honest man, the good son." Just as the widow pronounced these last words the door of the prison opened. "Already!" cried Calabash with a convulsive start. "Oh! they have put the clock ahead! They have deceived us!" "So much the better--if the watch of the executioner is too fast--your follies will not dishonor me." "Madame," said the prison warder, with that kind of commiseration which forebodes death, "your son is here; will you see him?"