"There--accidentally--I learned that that person--found your daughter--very beautiful, and--knowing that that person is utterly--reckless of consequences--I feared for your daughter and for George--I tried--yesterday--to notify him--he was not at home; I wrote to him--asking to see him, without stating my reasons--This morning--I went out--without knowing--that there--were barricades--and--" The young girl could not finish; her head fell back; mechanically she raised both her hands to the wound on her bosom, heaved a sigh of profound grief, and stammered a few unintelligible words. Monsieur and Madam Lebrenn wept in silence as they contemplated her. "Josephine," said George, "do you suffer much?" And covering his eyes with his hands he added: "This mortal wound--was received by her in the attempt to save my life!" "George--George," muttered the dying girl almost inaudibly, as her eyes roved aimlessly about, "George--you--do--not know--" And she began to laugh. That laugh of death was heartrending. "Poor child! Come to your senses," pleaded Madam Lebrenn. "My name is Pradeline," came deliriously from the wretched girl. "Yes--because--I always sing." "Unhappy child!" cried Lebrenn. "Poor girl, she is delirious!" "George," she resumed, her mind wandering, "listen to my songs--" And in an expiring voice she improvised to her favorite melody: "I feel th'approach of death, I'm breathing my last breath-- It is my fate, and yet I grieve--to die--" She did not complete the last line. Her arms twitched; her head drooped upon her shoulder. She was dead. That instant, Gildas opened the door that communicated with a back staircase leading to the upper story, and said to the merchant: "Monsieur, the colonel upstairs wishes to speak with you." The merchant went up to his own bed chamber, where the colonel had been quartered as a measure of precaution. The Count of Plouernel had received only two slight wounds, but was severely bruised. In order to facilitate the staunching of the blood he had taken off his uniform. Lebrenn found his guest standing in the middle of the apartment, pale and somber. "Monsieur," said he, "my wounds are not serious enough to prevent me from leaving the house. I shall never forget your generous conduct towards me. Your conduct was all the more noble in view of what transpired between us yesterday morning. My only wish is to be able some day to return your generosity. That, I suppose, will be difficult, monsieur, seeing my party is vanquished, and you are the vanquishers. I was blind with regard to the actual state of public sentiment. This sudden Revolution opens my eyes. I realize it--yes, the day of the people's triumph has come. We had our day, as you said to me yesterday, monsieur; your turn has come."