length, to walk, as he did many times in the day,
from corner to corner of his cell. At the first turn, by the door, he
struck his foot against something which he upset. It was a pitcher of
water, which, with a loaf of bread, had been put in that unusual place.
The sight was as distinct in its signification as a yawning grave. His
door was to open upon him no more. He was not again to see a human
face. The Commandant was to be absent awhile, and, on returning, to
find his prisoner dead.

He used all means that he could devise to ascertain whether it were
indeed so. He called Bellines from the door, in the way which Bellines
had never failed to reply to since the departure of Mars Plaisir.
Bellines did not come. He sang aloud, as he had never before been
allowed to sing unchecked, since he entered the fortress. He now sang
unchecked. The hour of the afternoon meal passed, and no one came. The
evening closed, and no bolt had been drawn. The case was clear.

The prisoner now and then felt a moment's surprise at experiencing so
little recoil from such a fate. He was scarcely conscious even of
repugnance. His tranquillity was doubtless owing, in part, to his
having long contemplated death in this place as certain; to life having
now little left to make its continuance desirable; and to his knowing
himself to be so reduced, that the struggle could not be very long. But
he himself believed his composure to be owing to another cause than any
of these.

"He who appointed me to the work of such a life as mine," thought the
dying man, "is making its close easy to His servant. I would willingly
have suffered to the extremity of His will: but my work is done; men's
eyes are no longer upon me; I am alone with Him; and He is pleased to
let me enter already upon my everlasting peace. If Father Laxabon were
here, would he now say, as he has often said, and as most men say, that,
looking back upon life from its close, it appears short as the time of
the early rains? Instead of this, how long appear the sixty years that
I have lived! How long, how weary now teems the life when I was a
slave--though much was done, and it was the schooling of my soul for the
work preparing for my hand. My Margot! my children! how quietly did we
then live, as if no change were ever to come, and we were to sit before
our door at Breda every evening, till death should remove us, one by
one! While I was composing my soul to patience by tho