"This Robespierre rules through the fear he has inspired, but he is hated," replied Edmé. "The people accept his decrees like sheep, but they obey sullenly. They do not criticise him, but that bodes him the greater ill. It needs but one blast to make the whole nation turn against him. There must be men in the convention who are ready to rebel against him," she continued, talking rapidly. "I shall go to them." "No, Edmé, you shall not. It would be"-- "Listen to what I have to say," she said, interrupting him with an imperative gesture. "I shall find them out; I shall go to their houses. It needs but a little fire; I will kindle it. I will plead with them. If they have any regard for their Republic they will listen to me. Your name, Robert, shall not be mentioned, but it will be my love for you that shall speak to them. In the name of the Republic I shall plead with them, but it will be only to save you. If they have any courage or manhood left, they will accept now." Robert Tournay looked at her with wonder and admiration as, with a flush of excitement on her cheek, she outlined clearly and rapidly a plan strikingly similar to that evolved by St. Hilaire and himself,--similar, but more daring, more impossible; one that could not fail to be disastrous to her, whatever the ultimate result. For a moment he feared to speak, knowing the inflexibility of her will. "I pray you, Edmé, abandon your design. It will only drag you into the net and will not avail me." "Robert, my mind is fixed; my action may result in saving you, but if not, your fate shall be mine also." "Edmé! Do not speak thus. The thought of you standing on that scaffold, the terrible knife menacing your beautiful neck, will drive me mad. Oh, the horror of it!" and he put his hand before his eyes and trembled. "Promise me that you will not do this," he continued pleadingly. "Robespierre's power will come to an end, but the time is not yet ripe. Do not try to save my life. Do not even try to see me again." He took her head between his hands. "Let this be our last adieu," he pleaded. "Listen! the turnkey is advancing down the passageway. I touch your lips; the memory of it shall dwell in my soul forever." She threw her arms about his neck for a moment, then before the heavy turnkey entered the inclosure she had passed quickly along the dark corridor through the wicket gate into the Tribunal Hall. The chamber was dimly lighted by two smoky oil lamps, one on each side of the room; but they gave out enough light to enable her to see the way between the desks and chairs toward the door through which she had first entered from the street.