With these words, the messenger of the Tribunal withdrew. Then came a sigh of relief from those who had not been summoned.
The friends of Dolores assembled around her.
"Unfortunate child, what have you done?" asked one.
"Are you, then, so anxious to die?"
"Why did you go forward when it was not your name that he called?"
She glanced calmly at her questioners; then, in a voice in which entreaty was mingled with the energy that denotes an immutable resolve, she said:
"I beg that no one will interfere in this matter, or make me unhappy by endeavoring to persuade me to reconsider my decision. Above all, I earnestly entreat you to keep my secret."
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.