"Then forgive me, ere I die!" "Never, never!" exclaimed Calabash; and then, totally exhausted by the effort she had made, she sank back in the arms of the assistants. A cloud passed over the hitherto stern features of the widow, and a moisture was momentarily visible on her glowing eyeballs. At this instant she encountered the pitying looks of her son. After a trifling hesitation, during which she seemed to be undergoing some powerful internal conflict, she said: "And you?" Sobbing violently, Martial threw himself into his mother's arms. "Enough!" said the widow, conquering her emotion, and withdrawing herself from the close embrace of her son; "I am keeping this gentleman waiting," pointing to the executioner; then, hurrying towards a chair, she resolutely seated herself, and the gleam of maternal sensibility she had exhibited was for ever extinguished. "Do not stay here," said the old soldier, approaching Martial with an air of kindness. "Come this way," continued he, leading him, while Martial, stupefied by horror, followed him mechanically. The almost expiring Calabash having been supported to a chair by the two assistants, one sustained her all but inanimate form, while the other tied her hands behind with fine but excessively strong whipcord, knotted into the most inextricable meshes, while with a cord of the same description he secured her feet, allowing her just so much liberty as would enable her to proceed slowly to her last destination. The widow having borne a similar pinioning with the most imperturbable composure, the executioner, drawing from his pocket a pair of huge scissors, said to her with considerable civility: "Be good enough to stoop your head, madame." Yielding immediate obedience to the request, the widow said: "We have been good customers to you; you have had my husband in your hands, and now you have his wife and daughter!" Without making any reply, the executioner began to cut the long gray hairs of the prisoner very close, especially at the nape of the neck. "This makes the third time in my life," continued the widow, with a dismal smile, "that I have had my head dressed by a professor: when I took my first communion the white veil was arranged; then on my marriage, when the orange-flowers were placed there; and upon the present occasion; upon my word, I hardly know which became me most. You cannot guess what I am thinking of?" resumed the widow, addressing the executioner, after having again contemplated her daughter. But the man made her no sort of answer, and no sound was heard but that of the scissors, and the sort of convulsive and hysterical sob that occasionally escaped from Calabash. At this moment a venerable priest approached the governor, and addressed him in a low, earnest voice, the import of which was to express his desire to make another effort to rescue the souls of the condemned.