The last word made me shudder as it fell from him; and not all my stoical indifference of weeks past was proof against such an accusation. The jailer having formally listened to the document, and replied by reading aloud another, delivered me over to the officer, who desired me to follow him.
In the court beneath the greater number of the prisoners were already assembled. George, among the number, was conspicuous, not only by his size and proportions, but by a handsome uniform, in the breast of which he wore his decoration of St. Louis, from which descended a bright bow of crimson ribbon. A slight bustle at one of the doorways of the tower suddenly seemed to attract his attention, and I saw that he turned quickly round, and forced his way through the crowd to the place. Eager to learn what it was, I followed him at once. Pushing with some difficulty forward, I reached the doorway, on the step of which lay a young man in a fainting fit. His face, pale as death, had no color save two dark circles round the eyes, which, though open, were upturned and filmy. His cravat had been hastily removed by some of the bystanders, and showed a purple welt around his neck, on one side of which a mass of blood escaping beneath the skin, made a dreadful-looking tumor. His dress denoted a person of condition, as well as the character of his features; but never had I looked upon an object so sad and woe-begone before. At his side knelt Greorge; his strong arm round his back, while his great massive hand patted the water on his brow. The stern features of the hardy Breton, which ever before had conveyed to me nothing but daring and impetuous passion, were softened to a look of womanly kindliness, his blue eye beaming as softly as though it were a mother leaning over her infant.
“Bouvet, my dear, dear boy, remember thou art a Breton; rally thyself, my child,—bethink thee of the cause.”
The name of the youth at once recalled him whom I had seen some months before among the Chouan prisoners, and who, sad and sickly as he then seemed, was now much further gone towards the tomb.
“Bouvet,” cried Greorge, in an accent of heartrending sorrow, “this will disgrace us forever!”
The youth turned his cold eyes round till they were fixed on the other's face; while his lips, still parted, and his cheek pale and flattened, gave him the appearance of a corpse suddenly called back to life.
“There, my own brave boy,” said Greorge, kissing his forehead—“there, thou art thyself again!” He bent over till his lips nearly touched the youth's ear, and then whispered: “Dost thou forget the last words Monsieur spoke to thee, Bouvet? 'Conserve-toi pour tes amis, et centre nos ennemis communs!'”
The boy started up at the sounds, and looked wildly about him, while his hands were open wide with a kind of spasmodic motion.
“Tonnerre de ciel!” cried George, with frantic passion; “what have they done with him? his mind is gone. Bouvet! Bouvet de Lozier! knowest thou this?” He tore from his bosom a miniature, surrounded with large brilliants, and held it to the eyes of the youth.
A wild shriek broke from the youth as he fell back in strong convulsions. The dreadful cry seemed like the last wail of expiring reason, so sad, so piercing was its cadence.