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."