“It is not worth while finishing it,” answered the officer.
“All right,” replied the clerk, philosophically putting up his his paper and pen into a greasy and well-worn writing case.
“It was written,” thought poor Cornelius, “that I should not, in this world, give my name either to a child, to a flower, or to a book, the three things by which a man’s memory is perpetuated.”
But repressing his melancholy thoughts, he followed the officer with a resolute heart, and carrying his head erect.
Cornelius counted the steps which led to the Esplanade, regretting that he had not asked the guard how many there were of them, which the man in his officious complaisance would not have failed to tell him.
What the poor prisoner was most afraid of during this walk, which he considered as leading him to the end of the journey of life, was to see Gryphus and not to see Rosa. What savage satisfaction would glisten in the eyes of the father, and what sorrow dim those of the daughter!
Indeed, the poor tulip-fancier needed all his courage and resolution, not to burst into tears at the thought of the latter, and of her foster-daughter the black tulip.
Although he looked to the right and to the left, he saw neither Rosa nor Gryphus.
On reaching the Esplanade, he bravely looked about. for the guards who were to be his executioners, and in reality saw a dozen soldiers assembled. But they were not standing in line, or carrying muskets, but talking together so gaily, that Cornelius felt almost shocked.
All at once, Gryphus, limping, staggering, and supporting himself on a crooked stick, came forth from the jailor’s lodge; his old eyes, gray as those of a cat, were
