"Phebus," she murmured, earnestly, "you once said you loved me, and tempted me to sin, and afterwards repented. You are not bad at heart. Your nature is not cruel and inexorable, and I am yet so young! Think of the memories you are raising now--a nightmare of unavailing remorse. Think before it is too late, of the clinging shirt of fire, which as the years progress will send you raving, and never may be shaken off!" "Enough, enough! It is settled," cried the abbé, "choose, or I will make the choice. In this goblet is no copper draught, since it appears you object to copper--a soothing decoction of delicious herbs, that grow beside the river. You are no botanist, I fear, or would have admired the pretty spotted leaf of the _[oe]nanthe crocata_, a useful plant without taste or smell, which possesses the additional advantage, when its work is done, of leaving no trace behind. You are so deplorably slow and undecided that I must choose for you. The [oe]nanthe, let it be, then, for it will neither stain your flesh nor mar your incomparable skin. You will lie with a peaceful smile, as of a pure unsullied babe who sleeps well and pleasantly, and drift gently on the stream of Lethe. Socrates, of whom, maybe you've heard, once quaffed a delicate tisane made of this self-same plant, and history avers that he enjoyed it very much." The abbé approached a step nearer, and held forth the goblet. The marquise recoiled, and half-numbed by a wind that seemed to blow from out of her open grave, clasped her hands wildly, crying, "Phebus, save me!" "You waste your breath," the abbé remarked, sternly. "His power of volition's gone, he is an automaton worked by me. Waste no more time, for we have much to do to-day. Drink, or he shall use his sword." Gabrielle, under the scrutiny of six pitiless eyes, took the chalice in her hands and drank. The abbé--determined this time to do his work effectually--perceiving a sediment left, gathered it carefully in a spoon, and bringing it to the goblet's brim, offered it once more with a courteous smile to the quivering lips of his victim. Then, remembering, he withdrew the spoon, and said, "No! the stalks and fibres can be traced." The victim lay panting on her pillows. The executioner remarked with a low bow, "We will leave you to make your peace with Heaven," and was preparing to withdraw when the marquise gasped out, "In Heaven's name, do not destroy my soul. Send for a confessor that I may die as a Christian should." "You forgot I am a priest," returned the abbé, smiling, "and now, as ever, at your service." Perceiving that she did not appreciate his merry conceit, for she covered her face with shuddering hands, he motioned to his brother to follow, and bade Algaé remain with the victim.