The chasseur approached him. "What is the cause of this laughter?" asked Pichegru. "The people are not insulting the condemned men, are they?" "Quite on the contrary, general, they are pitying them." "But what is the meaning of those bursts of laughter then?" "It is not their fault, general; he would make a mile-stone laugh!" "Who?" "The surgeon Figeac, who is to be guillotined; he is cracking so many jokes from the top of the cart that even the condemned men are convulsed with laughter." The general and his companions looked at each other. "The time seems to me rather ill-chosen for mirth," said Pichegru. "Well, he seems to have found a laughable side to death." Just then the advance-guard of the procession came in sight, the men laughing heartily--not with a savage and insulting laugh, but with one that was natural and hearty. The immense cart, which was carrying twenty-two prisoners, bound two and two, to the execution, came in sight almost immediately. Pichegru stepped back, but Eisemberg called to him in a loud voice. Pichegru paused. Figeac, seeing that Eisemberg wished to speak, was silent, and the laughter ceased almost immediately. Eisemberg moved forward, dragging the man to whom he was bound with him, and standing up, said: "Pichegru, listen to me." Those of the young men who had their caps or their hats on their heads removed them; Falou stood close to the window saluting. "Pichegru," said the unhappy general, "I am going to die, and I shall gladly leave you the honors which your courage will bring you. I know that you do justice to my loyalty, that has been betrayed by the fate of war, and that you have secretly pitied me in my misfortune. I should like to predict a better end for you than mine, but you may not hope for it. Houchard and Custine are dead, I am to die, Beauharnais will die, and you will die like us. The people to whom you have devoted your sword are not sparing of the blood of their defenders, and if the hostile bullets spare you, you will not escape the executioner. Farewell, Pichegru! May Heaven preserve you from the jealousy of tyrants and the false justice of assassins. Farewell, my friend! Go on, now, you." Pichegru greeted him with his hand, shut the window, and entered his room with his head bent and his arms folded, as if Eisemberg's words weighed heavy on his mind. Then, suddenly raising his head, and addressing the young men who were looking at him in silence, he said: "Who among you knows Greek! I will give my best Cummer pipe to the one who can tell me the name of the Greek author who speaks of the prophecies of dying men." "I know a little Greek, general," said Charles, "but I do not smoke at all." "Well, then I will give you something that will please you more than a pipe." "Well, general," said Charles, "it is Aristophanes, in a passage which may be translated somewhat as follows: 'Dying Hoary-heads have the souls of Sybils.'"