. It was the last of December, and night comes quickly in
winter. It was only four o'clock, and already the gathering twilight
warned the prisoners that the hour for returning to their cells was fast
approaching.

Suddenly there was a movement in the crowd. The prisoners nearest the
door pushed against those who were further away, and soon they found
themselves ranged along the wall, while a large vacant space was left in
the centre of the room.

A man had just entered. He was attired in black, and he wore a large red
cockade on his hat. In his hand he held a roll of papers. Four soldiers
accompanied him. It was easy to recognize in this personage a clerk of
the Revolutionary Tribunal; and it was his duty as an officer of that
body, to visit the prisons and read the names of those condemned to
death and of those who were summoned to appear before the Tribunal to
answer the charges against them. Like an avenging spirit, he appeared
every day at the same hour, rigid, inflexible, cruel, deaf to
supplications and tears, a grim avant-courier of the executioner,
selecting his victims and marking them for death.

Accustomed as they were to see him, his appearance among the prisoners
always caused a thrill of horror. There was so much youth, beauty,
innocence, grace, and devotion there! Why should they be doomed? They
were enemies to whom? To what projects were they an obstacle? Useless
questions! It is because Robespierre laid his merciless hand upon the
good, upon the weak and upon the timid that his name will be eternally
held in execration by all generous hearts.

When this official entered, Antoinette and Philip, who were as yet
unversed in the customs of the prison, were pushed back by the crowd
into the yard, without understanding why. Dolores, who knew what was to
come, remained in the hall and chanced to be in the foremost row.

The clerk came forward, unrolled a long list and began to read in a loud
voice the names of all who were to appear before the Tribunal the
following day. What a strange medley of names! Names of plebeians and of
nobles; of nuns and of priests; of royalists and of republicans; of old
men and of children; of men and of women; it was all the same, provided
the guillotine was not compelled to wait for its prey.

Each time a prisoner's name was called a murmur, more or less prolonged
according as the rank, the age or the sex of the victim inspired more or
less sympathy or pity, ran through the