“It is not you,” he said, “it is the other.”
“What other?”
“The young one.”
She began to shake her head, crying,—
“There is no one! there is no one! there is no one!”
“Yes, there is!” retorted the hangman, “and you know it well. Let me take the young one. I have no wish to harm you.”
She said, with a strange sneer,—
“Ah! so you have no wish to harm me!”
“Let me have the other, madam; ’tis monsieur the provost who wills it.”
She repeated with a look of madness,—