The Judges now withdrew to the cabinet appointed for their deliberations, and De Blenau was removed from the court to a small apartment hard by. He had not been here a moment when his page, Henri de La Mothe, burst into the room. "My dear, dear master!" exclaimed the boy, throwing himself at his feet, "they tell me that you certainly will not be condemned, for that you have not been taken to what is called the _dead man's dwelling_: so the sentinel let me in to see you." "Henry! how came you hither!" exclaimed De Blenau, hurriedly--"But we have no time to think of that--My fate is sealed--I have read it in the triumphant glance of that demon, Lafemas.--Mark me, my boy, and if ever you loved me, obey me well.--When I am dead--Do you hear?--When I am dead, near my heart you will find a portrait. Take it, with this ring, to Mademoiselle de Beaumont. Tell her, that the one was the likeness of all I love on earth; and the other, the ring that was to have bound her to me for ever. Say that De Blenau sends them to her in death, and that his last thought was of Pauline de Beaumont." "Alas! Mademoiselle de Beaumont!" said the Page. But as he spoke, the door opened and an officer of the court entered, followed by a priest. "Begone, boy!" said the officer, leading Henry to the door. "How came you in here? We have more serious matter in hand now." "Remember!" said De Blenau, holding up his hand impressively, "remember!" And Henry, bursting into tears, was hurried from the apartment. "Now, Father," continued De Blenau, turning to the Priest, "let us to your business." "It is a sad one, my son," he replied; "it is but to tell you, that you must prepare to leave a world of sorrow!" "God's will be done!" said De Blenau. CHAPTER XV. Which, if the reader can get through it, will bring him to the end of the history. All delay in the execution of a sentence where there exists no hope of mercy, is but needless cruelty; yet De Blenau was suffered to linger fourteen weary nights and days between the day of his condemnation and that appointed for his death. It approached, however, at length. We are told, by those who have had the best opportunities of judging, that the last night of a condemned prisoner's existence is generally passed in slumber. It was so with De Blenau. Hope and fear were equally things gone by to him. The bitter sentence of death had rung in his ear. He had traced the last lines of affection to her he loved. He had paid the last duties of religion; and fatigued with the strong excitement which his mind had undergone, he threw himself on his couch and fell into that profound sleep which only despair can give, and which approaches near to annihilation.