“What! ask of you,” continued the young man, “and I ask you to swear it on our love, which has been, alas! so fatal to you, is this: if I am arrested and disarmed, if I am imprisoned and condemned to death, I implore you, Amélie, I exact of you, that in some way you will send me arms, not only for myself, but for my companions also, so that we may still be masters of our lives.” “But in such a case, Charles, may I not tell all to my brother? May I not appeal to his tenderness; to the generosity of the First Consul?” Before the young girl had finished, her lover seized her violently by the wrist. “Amélie,” said he, “it is no longer one promise I ask of you, there are two. Swear to me, in the first place, and above all else, that you will not solicit my pardon. Swear it, Amélie; swear it!” “Do I need to swear, dear?” asked the young girl, bursting into tears. “I promise it.” “Promise it on the hour when I first said I loved you, on the hour when you answered that I was loved!” “On your life, on mine, on the past, on the future, on our smiles, on our tears.” “I should die in any case, you see, Amélie, even though I had to beat my brains out against the wall; but I should die dishonored.” “I promise you, Charles.” “Then for my second request, Amélie: if we are taken and condemned, send me arms--arms or poison, the means of dying, any means. Coming from you, death would be another joy.” “Far or near, free or a prisoner, living or dead, you are my master, I am your slave; order and I obey.” “That is all, Amélie; it is simple and clear, you see, no pardon, and the means of death.” “Simple and clear, but terrible.” “You will do it, will you not?” “You wish me to?” “I implore you.” “Order or entreaty, Charles, your will shall be done.” The young man held the girl, who seemed on the verge of fainting, in his left arm, and approached his mouth to hers. But, just as their lips were about to touch, an owl’s cry was heard, so close to the window that Amélie started and Charles raised his head. The cry was repeated a second time, and then a third. “Ah!” murmured Amélie, “do you hear that bird of ill-omen? We are doomed, my friend.” But Charles shook his head. “That is not an owl, Amélie,” he said; “it is the call of our companions. Put out the light.” Amélie blew it out while her lover opened the window. “Even here,” she murmured; “they seek you even here!” “It is our friend and confidant, the Comte de Jayat; no one else knows where I am.” Then, leaning from the balcony, he asked: “Is it you, Montbar?” “Yes; is that you, Morgan?” “Yes.” A man came from behind a clump of trees. “News from Paris; not an instant to lose; a matter of life and death to us all.” “Do you hear, Amélie?” Taking the young girl in his arms, he pressed her convulsively to his heart. “Go,” she said, in a faint voice, “go. Did you not hear him say it was a matter of life and death for all of you?” “Farewell, my Amélie, my beloved, farewell!”