ahill joined him.

"Well," cried the latter, "is it done?"

"Yes, Michel," was the answer; "signed, and sealed, and witnessed in
all form. By this document I am recognized as a member of his family,
inheriting that which I shall never claim. No," cried he, with
exultation of voice and manner, "I want none of their possessions; I ask
but to be accounted of their race and name; and yet the time may come
when these conditions shall be reversed, and they who would scarcely own
me to-day may plot and scheme to trace our relationship. Now for Rome.
To-night--this very night--I set out. With this evidence of my station
and fortune there can be no longer any obstacle. The struggle is past;
now to enjoy the victory!"

"You will see him before you go, D'Esmonde? A few minutes is all he
asks."

"Why should I? What bond is there between us now? The tie is loosened
forever; besides, he deceived us, Michel,----deceived us in everything."

"Be it so," said the other; "but remember that it is the last prayer of
one under sentence of death,--the last wish of one who will soon have
passed away hence."

"Why should I go to hear the agonizing entreaties for a mercy that
cannot be granted,--the harrowing remorse of a guilty nature?"

"Do not refuse him, D'Esmonde. He clings to this object with a fixed
purpose that turns his mind from every thought that should become the
hour. In vain I speak to him of the short interval between him and
the grave. He neither hears nor heeds me. His only question is, 'Is he
coming,----will he come tome?'"

"To lose minutes, when every one of them is priceless, to waste emotions
when my heart is already racked and tortured,----why should I do this?"
cried D'Esmonde, peevishly.

"Do not refuse me, D'Esmonde," said Cahill, passionately. "I despair
of recalling the miserable man to the thought of his eternal peril till
this wish be satisfied."

"Be it so, then," said the Abbe, proudly; and he walked along beside his
friend in silence.

They traversed the streets without a word spoken. Already D'Esmonde
had assumed an air of reserve which seemed to mark the distance between
himself and his companion; the thoughtful gravity of his look savored no
less of pride than reflection. In such wise did Cahill read his manner,
and by a cautious deference appear to accept the new conditions of their
intimacy.

"The prisoner has not uttered a word since you were here, sir," said
the jailer, as they entered the