Marguerite started up wildly. “What is that?” “A fresh outburst of the crowd, Marguerite, but have no fear, you are safe.” “Safe! oh yes,” she answered, and a soft smile stole over her face; but, all at once she started up. “My mother, my mother! oh, how could I forget her! Who will say that she is safe?” “I will, Marguerite. Look yonder.” Marguerite sat up on the bench, and saw her mother with Monsieur Jacques; between them, half walking, was an old man, who strove to hide his face from the light. “It is my father,” she said, almost in a whisper. “He has not seen the light since I was a little child.” St. Just went forward, and supported the prisoner toward the bench where Marguerite rested. Madame Gosner came forward sadly, and took the girl in her arms. “It is your father, Marguerite; but he does not know me. They have killed his mind.” Marguerite took her mother’s hand, and kissed it tenderly. “He will remember, mamma. God never can kill so sweet a thing as love in the human soul. Oh yes, he will remember.” Marguerite saw that her father was drawing near, and the tremor of a great expectation shook her frame; her eyes grew misty, and the faintness again crept over her, as she turned them upon him. The bench on which Marguerite sat was in the deep shadow of a wall. She saw the wind blow that white hair back from the old man’s face, which had been covered till then. It was the most benign and gentle face that human eyes ever looked upon. She left the bench and moved timidly toward that angel-faced man, who held back his hair with both hands, that he might look upon her. She sunk to her knees at his feet, for great suffering had made him sacred to her. A single holy word trembled on her lips. “Father!” A look of touching bewilderment came over that gentle face; the prisoner looked from the beautiful girl at his feet to the face of the mother. “This is Therese,” he said. “This is your child,” said madame, keeping back her tears. “She was a little thing when you went away.” “A—yes—I remember! So small—so small! But this one—— This is Therese!” “Father, will you not speak one word to me?” “One word? There was something I used to do;” he seemed troubled with thought a moment, then bent down and laid his hand on her head, “God—God bless them!” He turned his pleased face upon his wife. “These words I kept close—here, here!” While his hand was on Marguerite’s head a great tumult came surging through the court. Some women, driven frantic by continued resistance at a second draw-bridge, had gone in a body to the Place de Grève, from whence they dragged another cannon and were now wheeling it furiously onward, determined on firing it themselves in rebuke of the men who, more patient and less ferocious than they, had waited to negotiate.