"Thank Heaven!--thank Heaven! I am not thy murderess!" Nearer and nearer press the populace,--another moment, and the deathsman is defrauded.

O Zanoni! why still upon THY brow the resignation that speaks no hope?
Tramp! tramp! through the streets dash the armed troop; faithful to his orders, Black Henriot leads them on.

Tramp! tramp! over the craven and scattered crowd! Here, flying in disorder,--there, trampled in the mire, the shrieking rescuers! And amidst them, stricken by the sabres of the guard, her long hair blood-bedabbled, lies the Italian woman; and still upon her writhing lips sits joy, as they murmur, "Clarence! I have not destroyed thee!" On to the Barriere du Trone.

It frowns dark in the air,--the giant instrument of murder! One after one to the glaive,--another and another and another! Mercy! O mercy! Is the bridge between the sun and the shades so brief,--brief as a sigh?
There, there,--HIS turn has come.
"Die not yet; leave me not behind; hear me--hear me!" shrieked the inspired sleeper.

"What! and thou smilest still!" They smiled,--those pale lips,--and WITH the smile, the place of doom, the headsman, the horror vanished.