ed by the regent."

"I," said Talhouet, "only desire the time necessary for the commission
to repent of its iniquity."

"As for me," said Du Couedic, "I wish for time for the minister at Paris
to commute the sentence into eight days' imprisonment, which we deserve
for having acted somewhat thoughtlessly."

"And you," said the usher gravely, to Pontcalec, who was silent, "what
do you ask?"

"I," said Pontcalec calmly, "I demand nothing."

"Then, gentlemen," said the usher, "this is the answer of the
commission: you have two hours at your disposal to arrange your
spiritual and temporal affairs; it is now half-past six, in two hours
and a half you must be on the Place du Bouffay, where the execution will
take place."

There was a profound silence; the bravest felt fear seizing the very
roots of their hair.

The usher retired without any one having made any answer; only the
condemned looked at each other, and pressed each other's hands.

They had two hours.

Two hours, in the ordinary course of life, seem sometimes an age, at
others two hours are but a moment.

The priests arrived, after them the soldiers, then the executioners.

The situation was appalling. Pontcalec, alone, did not belie himself.
Not that the others wanted courage, but they wanted hope; still
Pontcalec reassured them by the calmness with which he addressed, not
only the priests, but the executioners themselves.

They made the preparations for that terrible process called the toilet
of the condemned. The four sufferers must proceed to the scaffold
dressed in black cloaks, in order that in the eyes of the people, from
whom they always feared some tumult, they might be confounded with the
priests who exhorted them.

Then the question of tying their hands was discussed--an important
question.

Pontcalec answered with his smile of sublime confidence.

"Oh, leave us at least our hands free; we will go without disturbance."

"That has nothing to do with us," replied the executioner who was
attending to Pontcalec; "unless by special order, the rules are the same
for all sufferers."

"And who gives these orders?" said Pontcalec, laughing, "the king?"

"No, marquis," answered the executioner, astonished by such unexampled
presence of mind, "not the king, but our chief."

"And where is your chief?"

"That is he, talking with the jailer Christopher."

"Call him then," said Pontcalec.

"Ho, Monsieur Waters!" cried the executioner, "please