|Ever sinee the departure of the two deputies to Avignon, Pomperant had been kept in strict confinement in the Tour de Saint Paul. One morning the door of his dungeon was opened by an officer, whose sombre looks proclaimed his errand. “You are come to bid me prepare for death, I perceive, captain,” said Pomperant, with as much composure as he could command. “You have guessed rightly, monseigneur,” replied the officer. “The two deputies have been captured, and unless they are liberated before noon you will be executed. A message has been sent to that effect to the Duke de Bourbon.” “At least the commanders will let me die as becomes a gentleman--not as a common malefactor?” said Pom-perant. “I cannot give you that consolation, monseigneur,” rejoined the officer. “You are to be hanged from the summit of this tower in face of the hostile army. The execution will take place precisely at noon. You have yet an hour to live.” “An hour! Is that all?” mentally ejaculated Pom-perant. “Send a priest to me, I pray you, captain,” he said, with forced calmness. “I would fain make my peace with Heaven.” The officer then withdrew, and shortly afterwards a priest entered, who received the prisoner's confession, and gave him absolution. “I will leave you now, my son,” said the holy man, “but I shall remain without, and will attend you at the last.” Pomperant had not been long alone, when the door of the cell again opened, and gave admittance to Marcelline. A sad greeting passed between them. “I have striven to save you,” she said, in a voice half suffocated by emotion. “I have been to Renzo da Ceri, and have implored him, on my bended knees, to spare your life--but in vain. He will not even grant you the respite of an hour. All I could obtain was permission to hold this brief interview with you.” “I thank him for the grace--it is more than I expected,” replied Pomperant, gazing at her with the deepest affection. “Oh! Marcelline, you have made life so dear to me that I grieve to lose it. But the thought that you love me will soothe the pangs of death.” “It may console you to be assured that I will wed no other,” she rejoined. “I will be true to your memory--doubt it not. As soon as this siege is ended, I will enter a convent, and devote myself to Heaven.” At this moment the priest entered the cell. “Daughter,” said the good man, looking compassionately at her, “you must bid your lover an eternal farewell.” “Oh no, no--do not say so, father!” she rejoined. “Grant me a few more minutes.” “Alas, daughter, I have no power to comply with your request.” “Nay, you must go, dear Mareelline,” said Pomperant. “Your presence will only unman me. Farewell for ever!” Mareelline continued gazing passionately at her lover, while the priest drew her gently from the well.