"Well, my child," said he, "your father's honour is in your hands; tell me what I am to do," and he mechanically held the pen within his fingers, which Santerre had thrust into his hand.
"We will die, father," said she, "if these men please it," and she put down the document on the table on which it had been written.

"I cannot ask you to denounce our dear, our gallant Henri.

I cannot bid you to deny your King.

Death at any rate will not dishonour us.

We will only beg of this gentleman that in his mercy he will not separate us," and putting her arm round her father's neck, she fastened her hand upon the folds of his coat, as though determined that nothing should again separate her from his side.
"Denounce Henri!" said the old man; "denounce my own dear, gallant son, the most loyal of those who love their King--the bravest of the brave! No, Sir! I give you no thanks for your mercy, if you intended any.