"How can you speak so indifferently on such a dreadful subject? Yet true enough; in three short hours, we who now sit talking to each other, who, if at liberty, should ail nothing, but be ready to enjoy life, must die. Oh, mother, can you not say one word to comfort me?" "Be bold, girl, and die as you have lived, a true Martial!" "You should not talk thus to your daughter," interposed the old soldier, with a serious air; "you would have acted more like a parent had you allowed her to listen to the priest when he came." Again the widow contemptuously shrugged her shoulders, and, without deigning to notice the soldier further than by bestowing on him a look of withering contempt, she repeated to Calabash: "Pluck up your courage, my girl, and let the world see that women have more courage than men, with their priests and cowardly nonsense!" "General Leblond was one of the bravest officers of the regiment he belonged to. Well, this dauntless man fell at the siege of Saragossa, covered with wounds, and his last expiring act was to sign himself with the cross," said the veteran. "I served under him. I only tell you this to prove that to die with a prayer on our lips is no sign of cowardice!" Calabash eyed the bronzed features of the speaker with deep attention. The scarred and weather-beaten countenance of the old man told of a life passed in scenes of danger and of death, encountered with calm bravery. To hear those wrinkled lips urging the necessity of prayer, and associating religion with the memory of the good and valiant, made the miserable, vacillating culprit think that, after all, there could be no cowardice in recommending one's soul to the God who gave it, and breathing a repentant supplication for the past. "Alas, alas!" cried she. "Why did I not attend to what the priest had to say to me? It could not have done me any harm, and it might have given me courage to face that dreadful afterwards, that makes death so terrible." "What! Again?" exclaimed the widow, with bitter contempt. "'Tis a pity time does not permit of your becoming a nun! The arrival of your brother Martial will complete your conversion; but that honest man and excellent son will think it sinful to come and receive the last wishes of his dying mother!" As the widow uttered these last words, the huge lock of the prison was heard to turn with a loud sound, and then the door to open. "So soon!" shrieked Calabash, with a convulsive bound. "Surely the time here is wrong,--it cannot be the hour we were told! Oh, mother! Mother! Must we die at least two hours before we expected?" "So much the better if the executioner's watch deceives me! It will put an end to your whining folly, which disgraces the name you bear!" "Madame," said an officer of the prison, gently opening the door, "your son is here,--will you see him?" "Yes," replied the widow, without turning her head.