"Be it so: speak."
"You know that you will be condemned to death. I suppose?"
"I presume so."
"Good! Now listen to me, and, above all, do not interrupt me; for time is precious, and we must profit by it. You understand that if I obeyed you when you ordered me to escape, I did so because I suspected in what way affairs would turn. Now the moment for action has arrived. All is prepared for your flight; the jailers are bought—they will not see you quit the prison. I have freighted a vessel. Take your hat, and come. In ten minutes we shall be aboard, in half an hour under sail, and we will leave Mexican justice to deal with you in your absence. Come, I have managed capitally, I think, brother. You see that I have lost no time, and all this is very simple."
"Extremely simple indeed," the count replied with the utmost calmness. "I thank you for what you have done for me."
"Indeed, brother, it is not worth thanking for."
The count laid his hand on his arm to interrupt him.
"But," he continued, "I cannot accept your offer."
"What!" Valentine exclaimed with a start of surprise. "What do you say, brother? You must be jesting."
"Not at all, brother. What I say is the truth. It is my inflexible will to leave to the Mexican people the iniquity of my condemnation, the indelible stain of my death. I will not fly: I cannot—I ought not; for it would be an act of cowardice on my part. A soldier does not abandon his post. A gentleman does not sully his escutcheon. A Frenchman has not the right to dishonour his name. I die for a noble and grand idea—the emancipation and regeneration of a people. That idea required a baptism of blood to make it prosper and bear fruit at a later date. I give it mine without regret—without a thought of self, gladly—I will say almost with happiness. Brother, in a prison thoughts ripen quickly: it is probably because a man is nearer the tomb there, and life appears to him what it really is—a dream. I have thought much. I have reflected deeply. I have weighed with the utmost impartiality the for and against of the two questions, and I prefer death. I knew what you would attempt for me. Your life has been one long devotion; but that devotion must this night accomplish its greatest sacrifice in letting me die, and not attempting to save me. A man like I am must not secure his life by trickery. I pledged my head as the stake in the game I played. I lost, and I pay my debt."