“Then you denounce the women who are ready to die for liberty; you side with royal tyrants?” said Louison, fiercely. “Woman, if you are one of them, go away and leave me in peace.” “No, old man, I will not leave you. In these times the life and peace of every man and woman in France belongs to the nation. It is given some to fight, some to speak, and others to plan—you shall not sit here musing in silence. There is eloquence in your wrongs, power in your white hair—glory to crown it when this government is overthrown. You are needed to inspire the people who have given you freedom. Old man, I charge you to join those who will have ‘Liberty or death! Liberty or death!’ These were the words of a great American patriot, who did more by that one outburst to win the freedom he pined for, than the swords of fifty common warriors. Your words may be equally powerful.” The old man shook his head, but made no answer. Louison grew fierce, for his meek opposition excited her to rage. She moved a little on one side, and the motion let in a gleam of moonlight, which fell on the old man’s face. She spoke again with bitterness. “Old man, you are dreaming.” “Dreaming? Yes! One learns to dream when light and speech are forgotten; but this dream brings tears to my eyes—and they come with such pain now! Would it offend you, madame, if I ask to be alone with my friend?” “With your friend? What friend? I see no one here.” “No matter; but I am used to being alone. Would it please you to leave me? In this place, company seems strange.” “Yes, old man, I will go, but on one condition. When the patriots want you, in order to deal out vengeance where it has been so foully earned, there must be no faltering—your wrongs belong to the nation. You were dragged forth from this dungeon that the people might learn something of the tyranny that oppresses them. All the remnant of your life belongs to them, and they will not be defrauded of it.” Again the old man shook his head with pathetic mournfulness; but Louison grew implacable and stamped her foot on the broken stones of the floor. “Are you thus ungrateful to the patriots who saved you?” she exclaimed, so fiercely that the prisoner shrunk within himself, and looked up frightened. His hands trembled so violently that the object they held fell down upon the folds of his black cloak with a tiny shriek, as if its gentle life were also disturbed by the presence of that angry woman. “What is that thing you are caressing?” demanded the woman, as Gosner laid his hand tenderly over a bright-eyed mouse that was trying to hide itself in the folds of his cloak. “Oh! do not hurt it! Do not hurt it!” cried the old man, reading danger in her fierce glance. The woman interrupted him with unutterable scorn in her face and voice.