Once or twice during that night Madame Gosner bent over the sleeping man, but even in his dreams her presence made him shrink. She had clasped him in her arms, and held him to view in that awful crowd. The wretched man had lost many things in that dungeon, but his sensitive delicacy nothing could destroy. It was a part of his soul. A dawning consciousness that she was his wife had struggled in his brain for a little time at their first meeting, but that rude scene on the cannon obliterated it entirely. From that hour he recognised Marguerite as Therese, who had no other embodiment for him. The next day a crowd of women came forcibly in, and demanded that feeble old man for exhibition at the Place de Grève, where his presence was intended to enflame the populace, and prepare it for deeper revolt and still more awful scenes. Marguerite protested against this coarse outrage, and would have defeated it had that been in her power. But the wife, given up heart and soul to the spirit of anarchy, joined with her fierce compatriots, and placed the wronged man by her side on the platform from which she harangued the people. Was it strange that a being so true and gentle, refused to recognize in this amazon the sweet and loving wife from whom he had been torn in his youth? One night, when everything was still in the house, the prisoner got up from the floor, and wandered about in the darkness, which he had learned to love in those long years, when it became second nature to him. Marguerite heard him, and left her bed. “Father!” “My Therese! I know the voice.” Marguerite, guided by the glad tone in which her father spoke, crept toward him, and put her hand in his. “What is it that troubles you, my father?” “I want to go back, Therese; this is not home. Everything is so warm and dry here; I cannot hear the water whispering to me. I cannot find my friend. Ah me! I want to go back, life is so full of noises.” “Your friend! had you a friend in the Bastille, father?” “Hush, Therese! they did not know it. I used to hide him when they came. They would have killed him else. Ah me! he may be dead now. My little friend who never left me, cannot know that they forced me away from him!” “Father, of whom are you speaking?” “Hush, hush; I will not tell, only I must go back: say nothing, Therese; but let me go back. I cannot rest here. The stars keep me awake; you know where to look for me, I remember how you came there with Doudel.” Marguerite shuddered at the sound of that name. “Dear father, try to rest,” she pleaded. “Rest, Therese? there will be no rest for me, or any of my race, until that ring of old Egypt is found. Oh! where is it—where is it?” “What ring, father?” “What ring? that which gave to the possessor of our blood the power and wisdom of a god. The ring which was wrested from my hand, on the day I was torn from the light.”