Think sometimes on him who commends his friend to your pity, and himself to your prayers.
"This is the last will and testament of Louis Archambaud Jean-Marie Arnaud, Vicomte de B----." Monsieur the Viscount's last will and testament was with difficulty squeezed into the surface of the larger of the stones.

Then he hid it where the priest had hidden _his_ bequest long ago, and then lay down to dream of Monsieur the Preceptor, and that they had met at last.
The next day was one of anxious suspense.

In the evening, as usual, a list of those who were to be guillotined next morning, was brought into the prison; and Monsieur the Viscount begged for a sight of it.
It was brought to him.

First on the list was Antoine! Halfway down was his own name, "Louis de B----," and a little lower his fascinated gaze fell upon names that stirred his heart with such a passion of regret as he had fancied it would never feel again, "Henri de St.
Claire, Valerie de St.Claire." Her eyes seemed to shine on him from the gathering twilight, and her calm voice to echo in his ears.

"_It has been in my mind all to-day.
There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary be at rest._" _There_! He buried his face and prayed.
He was disturbed by the unlocking of the door, and the new gaoler appeared with Antoine! The poor wretch seemed overpowered by terror.
He had begged to be imprisoned for this last night with Monsieur the Viscount.