She tossed back the long tresses that must veil her sight; she felt
the amulet on her bosom,--it was NO dream! "O God! and he is gone!" She
sprang to the door,--she shrieked aloud. The jailer comes. "My husband,
my child's father?"

"He is gone before thee, woman!"

"Whither? Speak--speak!"

"To the guillotine!"--and the black door closed again.

It closed upon the senseless! As a lightning-flash, Zanoni's words, his
sadness, the true meaning of his mystic gift, the very sacrifice he
made for her, all became distinct for a moment to her mind,--and then
darkness swept on it like a storm, yet darkness which had its light. And
while she sat there, mute, rigid, voiceless, as congealed to stone, A
VISION, like a wind, glided over the deeps within,--the grim court, the
judge, the jury, the accuser; and amidst the victims the one dauntless
and radiant form.

"Thou knowest the danger to the State,--confess!"

"I know; and I keep my promise. Judge, I reveal thy doom! I know that
the Anarchy thou callest a State expires with the setting of this sun.
Hark, to the tramp without; hark to the roar of voices! Room there, ye
dead!--room in hell for Robespierre and his crew!"

They hurry into the court,--the hasty and pale messengers; there is
confusion and fear and dismay! "Off with the conspirator, and to-morrow
the woman thou wouldst have saved shall die!"

"To-morrow, president, the steel falls on THEE!"

On, through the crowded and roaring streets, on moves the Procession of
Death. Ha, brave people! thou art aroused at last. They shall not die!
Death is dethroned!--Robespierre has fallen!--they rush to the rescue!
Hideous in the tumbril, by the side of Zanoni, raved and gesticulated
that form which, in his prophetic dreams, he had seen his companion at
the place of death. "Save us!--save us!" howled the atheist Nicot. "On,
brave populace! we SHALL be saved!" And through the crowd, her dark
hair streaming wild, her eyes flashing fire, pressed a female form, "My
Clarence!" she shrieked, in the soft Southern language native to the
ears of Viola; "butcher! what hast thou done with Clarence?" Her eyes
roved over the eager faces of the prisoners; she saw not the one she
sought. "Thank Heaven!--thank Heaven! I am not thy murderess!"

Nearer and nearer press the populace,--another moment, and the deathsman
is defrauded. O Zanoni! why still upon THY brow the resignation that
speaks no hope? Tramp! tramp! through the streets dash