It was three o'clock, and a lovely winter's day. The sky was clear and the sun radiant. "We have fine weather for our journey to the scaffold," thought Coursegol. Dolores was absorbed in prayer. Her heart ascended to God in fervent supplication that He would bless her sacrifice, and make it redound to the peace and happiness of the two beloved friends that were left behind. Suddenly, several men entered the hall: the executioner and his assistants. Moans and cries of terror arose from the condemned. "Already!" exclaimed a young woman, who had until now borne herself courageously. She fainted. She was half-dead with fear when she was carried up the steps of the guillotine an hour later. Dolores lost none of her composure on beholding the executioner. She quietly removed her hat; and while the three assistants cut off the hair of the prisoners around her, she unbound the magnificent golden tresses which enveloped her like a rippling veil. There was a universal shudder when the scissors despoiled that charming head of its superb adornment; and Coursegol could not repress an exclamation of wrath at this act of barbarity. Dolores checked him with a gesture. "I would like to have my hair," she said to the assistant executioner, pointing to the tresses lying upon the floor. "It belongs to me," he responded, roughly. "That is the custom." "Will this suffice to pay for it?" inquired Dolores, showing him a ring that she wore upon one of her fingers. "Undoubtedly." "Very well, I will buy it then." The man gathered up the golden curls and handed them to Dolores. "It is a pity," she said, gently and with a tinge of sadness. "They became me well." It was her only sign of regret for the sad fate to which her youth and beauty were condemned. When she saw that the moment of departure was near at hand, she asked to see Philip and Antoinette again. They had been standing just outside the door, half-crazed with grief. They entered, followed by Aubry, who, though accustomed to such scenes, was deeply moved. It was to him that she turned first. "I thank you for all your kindness," she said to him. "On my arrival at the prison, I confided a cross to your keeping." "Here it is. I return it to you, citoyenne." "Keep it, my friend; it will remind you of a prisoner to whom you showed compassion, and who will pray for you." "Oh, citoyenne, I could have done no less!" faltered the poor man. Then Dolores turned to Antoinette and Philip. Their despair verged upon madness. That of Antoinette was violent, and vented itself in moans and tears; that of Philip was still more terrible, for the wretched man seemed to have grown ten years older in the past few hours. "Farewell, my dear friends," said Dolores, cheerfully. "Do not mourn. Try to think that I am going on a journey, and to a country where you will soon come to join me. In its relations to life, death is nothing more."