“Are there more doomed?” asked Thérèse, faintly.
“There are. There are many guilty; and of some I must make an example. They know that they are guilty; but they know not yet which and how many are to be spared. The discipline of this night will, I trust, impress upon them that principle of our revolution which they have hitherto failed to learn, or have been tempted to forget. This night, father, will establish your precept and mine, and that of our Master—no retaliation. If not, may God direct us, by whatever suffering, to some other method of teaching it; for, at whatever cost, it must be learned! Let us begone.”
“One moment,” exclaimed Thérèse, in agitation. “You have not told me when—where—”
“He dies on the Place, at sunrise—a military, not an ignominious death. Father Laxabon and I shall both be near at hand when Génifrède wakes. Your task shall be shared, though we must leave you now.”
Moyse had been permitted to remain in the same apartment which had been assigned to him after his arrest. When he heard the key turn in the lock, he sprang from his seat to the door, exclaiming—
“You have come at last! Oh, Génifrède! to have kept me waiting this last night—”
He turned, and walked back to his seat, when he saw his uncle and the priest.
“You expected Génifrède?” asked Toussaint.
“I did—naturally.”
“She is asleep, and she must not be awakened. You would be the last to wish it, Moyse.”