No one made any response. The wish she had expressed was equivalent to a command; and as such, deeds of heroism were not uncommon, the one which she had performed so bravely, and which would cost her her life, was forgotten in a few moments by her companions in misfortune, who were naturally absorbed in the question as to when their own turn was to come. Dolores passed through the little group that had gathered around her, each person stepping aside with a grave bow to make way for her, and rejoined Antoinette and Philip, who knew nothing of what had taken place. When she appeared before them no trace of emotion was visible upon her face, and she had concealed the fated paper beneath the fichu that covered her bosom. She chatted cheerfully with her friends until the sound of the drum warned the prisoners that they must retire to their cells. Then, she smilingly extended her hand to Philip. "Good-night!" she said, simply. And taking Antoinette's arm in hers, she led her back to the cell they occupied in common. Antoinette entered first, leaving Dolores alone an instant in the main corridor. The latter turned and swiftly retraced her steps. She was seeking Aubry, the jailer. She soon met him. He, too, was ignorant of all that had occurred. "Where are you going?" he inquired, in a half-good-natured, half-grumbling tone. "I was looking for you," Dolores replied. "I must send a message to Coursegol this very night." "I am not sure that I can get permission to leave the prison." "You must," she eagerly rejoined. "It is absolutely necessary that I see Coursegol to-morrow morning at nine o'clock. If he comes later, he will not find me here." And as Aubry looked at her in astonishment, she added: "I am to appear to-morrow before the Tribunal." "You! I hoped they had forgotten you." "Hush! not a word to any one, above all, to the young girl who shares my cell. If you have any regard for me, give my message to Coursegol. You will do a good deed for which you shall be rewarded." She left the kind-hearted jailer without another word, and hastened back to the cell where Antoinette was awaiting her. Dolores passed the night in a profound and peaceful slumber and awoke with a heart overflowing with pure and holy joy at the thought that she was about to heroically crown a life devoted to duty and to abnegation. She did not underrate the sacrifice she was to make; but she knew that the death would not be without moral grandeur, and even while she comprehended that she had exceeded the limit of the obligations which duty imposed upon her, she felt no agitation, no regret.