"As for me," said Du Couëdic, "I wish for time for the minister at Paris to commute the sentence into eight days' imprisonment, which we deserve for having acted somewhat thoughtlessly." "And you," said the usher gravely, to Pontcalec, who was silent, "what do you ask?" "I," said Pontcalec calmly, "I demand nothing." "Then, gentlemen," said the usher, "this is the answer of the commission: you have two hours at your disposal to arrange your spiritual and temporal affairs; it is now half-past six, in two hours and a half you must be on the Place du Bouffay, where the execution will take place." There was a profound silence; the bravest felt fear seizing the very roots of their hair. The usher retired without any one having made any answer; only the condemned looked at each other, and pressed each other's hands. They had two hours. Two hours, in the ordinary course of life, seem sometimes an age, at others two hours are but a moment. The priests arrived, after them the soldiers, then the executioners. The situation was appalling. Pontcalec, alone, did not belie himself. Not that the others wanted courage, but they wanted hope; still Pontcalec reassured them by the calmness with which he addressed, not only the priests, but the executioners themselves. They made the preparations for that terrible process called the toilet of the condemned. The four sufferers must proceed to the scaffold dressed in black cloaks, in order that in the eyes of the people, from whom they always feared some tumult, they might be confounded with the priests who exhorted them. Then the question of tying their hands was discussed--an important question. Pontcalec answered with his smile of sublime confidence. "Oh, leave us at least our hands free; we will go without disturbance." "That has nothing to do with us," replied the executioner who was attending to Pontcalec; "unless by special order, the rules are the same for all sufferers." "And who gives these orders?" said Pontcalec, laughing, "the king?" "No, marquis," answered the executioner, astonished by such unexampled presence of mind, "not the king, but our chief." "And where is your chief?" "That is he, talking with the jailer Christopher." "Call him then," said Pontcalec. "Ho, Monsieur Waters!" cried the executioner, "please to come this way; there is one of these gentlemen asking for you." A thunderbolt falling in the midst of them would not have produced a more terrible effect upon the four gentlemen than did this name. "What did you say?" cried Pontcalec, shaking with affright; "what did you say? What name did you pronounce?" "Waters, our chief." Pontcalec, pale and overcome, sank upon a chair, casting an unutterable glance upon his affrighted companions. No one around them understood this sudden despair, which so rapidly succeeded to so high a confidence. "Well?" asked Montlouis, addressing Pontcalec in a tone of tender reproach.