The terrible word went round the drum, without a dissentient voice, and was quick followed by the still more terrible phrase, pronounced by the President:
“Condamné à mort!”
Maynard started, as if a shot had been fired at him. Once more did he mutter to himself:
“Am I dreaming?”
But no, the bleeding corpse of his late fellow-prisoner, seen in a corner of the yard, was too real. So, too, the serious, scowling faces before him, with the platoon of uniformed executioners standing a little apart, and making ready to carry out the murderous decree!
Everything around told him it was no dream—no jest, but a dread appalling reality!
No wonder it appalled him. No wonder that in this hour of peril he should recall those words late heard, “I’ll come to you! I will come!” No wonder his glance turned anxiously towards the entrance door.
But she who had spoken them came not. Even if she had, what could she have done? A young girl, an innocent child, what would her intercession avail with those merciless men who had made up their minds to his execution?
She could not know where they had taken him. In the crowded, turbulent street, or while descending to it, she must have lost sight of him, and her inquiries would be answered too late!
He had no hopes of her coming there. None of ever again seeing her, on this side the grave!