and the feeble light of this last day of October falls through the grating, imparting a wan look to the flushed faces that have watched through the night. Now Vergniaud is heard saying, "Are we not ourselves the best demonstration of immortality?—we who now are here?—we, calm, serene, impassive, beside the corpse of our friend, in face of our own corpses, quietly discussing, like philosophers, the night or the flash of light that will follow our last breath?"

It is striking ten; the door opens; the executioner enters to fetch the victims.