"You have one hour," to St. Just.
He left the gallery, and the door closed with a clang behind him.
The sound roused the Empress and she withdrew herself slowly from St. Just's support, and stumbled to a seat. She looked up at him, terror-stricken and bewildered.
"He is gone from me," she moaned. "I have lost him. Oh! what shall I do, what shall I do? Cruel, cruel!"
She pressed her hands against her head, as though to still its throbbing. Until her first grief should have spent itself, St. Just knew that to attempt to comfort her would be useless; and there was nothing he could say. He stood watching her in silence.
For some time she wept silently. Then, suddenly she sprang up, and her eye fell on the broken sword. She stooped towards it and raised it from the floor.
Divining her intention, St. Just dashed forward and wrested it from her hand. "Not that," he cried; "you must be mad."
"And have I not suffered enough to make me so? Why should I live? I cannot live. Oh! let me die," she wailed.
"Never," he replied impetuously. "There is yet happiness in store for you; life and hope."
"I will live, then; I may help him yet. Give it me," pointing to the broken sword.