"And what do I care for Mademoiselle de Mirandol? She is nothing to me, while you are almost my daughter. If you die, I shall not survive you. I have accomplished miracles to insure your escape from prison. I also flattered myself that I had assured your life's happiness, but by your imprudence you have rendered all my efforts futile. Oh, God is not just!" "Coursegol, in pity say no more!" But he would not heed her. He was really beside himself, and he continued his lamentations and reproaches with increasing violence, though his voice was choked with sobs. He gesticulated wildly; he formed a thousand plans, each more insane than the preceding. Now, he declared his intention of forcibly removing Dolores; now he declared he would appeal to the judges for mercy; again he swore that Vauquelas should interfere in her behalf. But the girl forbade any attempt to save her. "No, my good Coursegol," she said; "the thought of death does not appall me; and those who mourn for me will find consolation in the hope of meeting me elsewhere." "And do you think this hope will suffice for me?" cried Coursegol. "Since I took you from the breast of your dying mother on the threshold of the Chateau de Chamondrin, I have loved you more and more each day. I lived for you and for you alone. My every hope and ambition were centred in you. You were my joy, my happiness, the only charm life had for me; and to see you condemned, you, the innocent--" Sobs choked his utterance. "Show me the charges against you," he demanded, suddenly. "What is the use?" rejoined Dolores, desiring to conceal the truth from him until the last. "I wish to know the crimes of which you are accused," persisted Coursegol. "There are no proofs against you. I will find a lawyer to defend you--if need be, I, myself will defend you." "It would be useless, my friend. Your efforts would only compromise you, without saving me." As she spoke, she heard quick footsteps behind her. She turned. The officer who was there the evening before had returned to conduct the prisoners to the Tribunal. He began to call their names. "Farewell, farewell," murmured Dolores, huskily. In this parting from the friend who had loved her so long and faithfully, she experienced the first pang of anguish that had assailed her heart since she had decided to sacrifice her own life for Antoinette's sake. "Not farewell," responded Coursegol, "but au revoir!" And without another word, he departed. Dolores glanced around the hall; but saw nothing of Philip or Antoinette. She was greatly relieved, for she had feared that their emotion would unnerve her; but now she could reasonably hope to carry with her to the grave the secret of the devotion which was to cost her her life. She did not wish Philip ever to know that she had died in place of Antoinette, lest her friend should become hateful in his sight, and Antoinette herself be condemned to eternal remorse.