shal continued writing.

Dagobert started at this communication, and then replied, also in a
whisper: "It would not have been with your pistols. I took off the
caps."

The marshal turned round hastily, and looked at him with an air of
surprise. But the soldier only nodded his head affirmatively, and added:
"Thank heaven, we have now done with all those ideas!"

The marshal's only answer was to glance at his children, his eyes
swimming with tenderness, and sparkling with delight; then, sealing the
note he had written, he gave it to the soldier, and said to him, "Give
that to M. Robert. I will see him to-morrow."

Dagobert took the letter, and went out. Returning towards his daughters,
the marshal joyfully extended his arms to them, and said, "Now, young
ladies, two nice kisses for having sacrificed M. Robert to you. Have
I not earned them?" And Rose and Blanche threw themselves on their
father's neck.

About the time that these events were taking place at Paris, two
travellers, wide apart from each other, exchanged mysterious thoughts
through the breadth of space.

BOOK XI.

L. The Ruins of the Abbey of St. John the Baptist LI. The
Calvary LII. The Council LIII. Happiness LIV. Duty LV. The
Improvised Hospital LVI. Hydrophobia LVII. The Guardian
Angel LVIII. Ruin LIX. Memories LX. The Ordeal LXI. Ambition
LXII. To a Socius, a Socius and a Half LXIII. Faringhea's
Affection LXIV. An Evening at St. Colombe's LXV. The Nuptial
Bed LXVI. A Duel to the Death LXVII. A Message LXVIII. The
First of June

EPILOGUE.

I. Four Years After II. The Redemption

CHAPTER L. THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST.

The sun is fast sinking. In the depths of an immense piny wood, in the
midst of profound solitude, rise the ruins of an abbey, once sacred to
St. John the Baptist. Ivy, moss, and creeping plants, almost entirely
conceal the stones, now black with age. Some broken arches, some
walls pierced with ovals, still remain standing, visible on the dark
background of the thick wood. Looking down upon this mass of ruins from
a broken pedestal, half-covered with ivy, a mutilated, but colossal
statue of stone still keeps its place. This statue is strange and awful.
It represents a headless human figure. Clad in the antique toga, it
holds in its hand a dish and on that dish is a head. This head is its
own. It is the statue of St. John the Baptist and Martyr, p