f mind, he raised Dionysia, and carried her, almost
fainting, to the rough prison bench; then, kneeling down by her side,
and taking her hands he said,--

"Dionysia, for pity's sake, come to yourself and listen to me. I am
innocent; and to flee would be to confess that I am guilty."

"Ah! what does that matter?"

"Do you think that my escape would stop the trial? No. Although absent,
I should still be tried, and found guilty without any opposition: I
should be condemned, disgraced, irrevocably dishonored."

"What does it matter?"

Then he felt that such arguments would never bring her back to reason.
He rose, therefore, and said in a firm voice,--

"Let me tell you what you do not know. To flee would be easy, I agree.
I think, as you do, we could reach England readily enough, and we might
even take ship there without trouble. But what then? The cable is faster
than the fastest steamer; and, upon landing on American soil, I should,
no doubt, be met by agents with orders to arrest me. But suppose even I
should escape this first danger. Do you think there is in all this world
an asylum for incendiaries and murderers? There is none. At the extreme
confines of civilization I should still meet with police-agents and
soldiers, who, an extradition treaty in hand, would give me up to the
government of my country. If I were alone, I might possibly escape all
these dangers. But I should never succeed if I had you near me, and
Grandpapa Chandore, and your two aunts."

Dionysia was forcibly struck by these objections, of which she had had
no idea. She said nothing.

"Still, suppose we might possibly escape all such dangers. What would
our life be! Do you know what it would mean to have to hide and to
run incessantly, to have to avoid the looks of every stranger, and to
tremble, day by day, at the thought of discovery? With me, Dionysia,
your existence would be that of the wife of one of those banditti whom
the police are hunting down in his dens. And you ought to know that such
a life is so intolerable, that hardened criminals have been unable to
endure it, and have given up their life for the boon of a night's quiet
sleep."

Big tears were silently rolling down the poor girl's cheeks. She
murmured,--

"Perhaps you are right, Jacques. But, O Jacques, if they should condemn
you!"

"Well, I should at least have done my duty. I should have met fate,
and defended my honor. And, whatever the sentence may be, it will not
ov