"The end is near," answered Danton. "It is fate. Yet if I could leave my brains to Robespierre and my legs to Couthon, the Revolution might still limp along for a short time," and he laughed roughly. "Good-by, Tournay," he said in a tone of kindliness. "You are a brave man and a true Republican; such men as you might have saved the Republic, but it was not to be." He entered his cell, and Tournay never saw him again. The next day Danton was taken to the conciergerie and to his trial, and the day following to the guillotine. The lion head was parted from the giant trunk, and the Revolution swept on. The weeks dragged on monotonously to Colonel Tournay and St. Hilaire in the Luxembourg. The trees in the gardens beyond their prison walls had put forth their leaves, and the song of birds was borne sometimes even into the recesses of their cell. "Why are we left to rot here in this stifling place?" exclaimed Colonel Tournay for the thousandth time. "Why are we not even called for trial? Has Robespierre forgotten our existence?" "Let us hope that he has," rejoined St. Hilaire. "As long as we are overlooked we shall get into no worse trouble. We are not so very uncomfortable here," and St. Hilaire sprang upon the table to put his nose out between the window bars, like a fox in a cage, to get what air there was stirring and to look at the little patch of blue sky. Tournay smiled sadly. He envied St. Hilaire his cheerfulness and adaptability, while he felt his own spirit breaking under the long confinement. He sat down upon the edge of the bed and wondered what had happened in the world since he had been cut off from it. His thoughts were frequently of Gaillard, and he wished he could learn something about his friend. As he was sitting thus, oppressed by the warmth of a June afternoon, the turnkey entered the cell. "There is an old man come to see you," he said, addressing Tournay. "Your uncle from the provinces, I believe. You may see him outside here in the corridor." "I wonder who this visitor may be," thought Tournay as he followed the turnkey. "Had I not received word of my poor father's death two months ago I should expect to find him." An old man stood leaning on his cane at the end of the corridor. He seemed quite feeble, and the jailer, moved to compassion by his infirmity, placed a stool for him to sit upon. "My nephew!" exclaimed the old man in tremulous accents as Tournay made his appearance. Apparently the old man had made some mistake. To Colonel Tournay's eyes he was an entire stranger; but being aware that the slightest suspicion aroused in the mind of the prison authorities sometimes led to very serious consequences, he determined to wait until the turnkey was out of hearing before undeceiving the mild-eyed old gentleman. "My uncle," he answered, taking the venerable citizen by the outstretched hand, "how did your old legs manage to"-- The septuagenarian squeezed the colonel's hand until the fingers cracked.