even the rigidity of stone was on the face. The petitioner turned from the dead to the living, whose ashy colour, and wild fierce eye, struck more terror to her soul than the mournful mockery of the head, where life's likeness was fearfully rendered. Julian gazed on the dread memorial which he had snatched from the scaffold, with that strange mixture of hate and love, the mind’s most terrible element, whereof comes despair and madness; then turning slowly to the bewildered girl, said, in a low voice, but whose whisper was like thunder when the flash is commissioned to destroy,—
"That head belonged to my mistress—she was an aristocrat—and I denounced her—Judge if there exist one human being whom my pity is likely to spare."
His wretched petitioner gazed upwards, but hopelessly, and staggered against the wall.
"I would be alone," said Julian, and led her to the door.
She left him silently. She now knew prayers were vain, That night her lover perished beneath the guillotine;—the same blow struck to the heart of the fond faithful girl—death was merciful, for both died at the same moment. By some inscrutable sympathy with love which yet moved him not to spare, Julian had them buried in the same grave.
