Raymond Latour faced his enemies alone, his face still set, full of purpose.  No man uttered a word in his favor, no single expression of pity met him.  Justice might be tempered with mercy if the prisoner would say where this emigre and this American were to be found.  The prisoner did not know.  A storm of howls and hisses met the answer, barely silenced by the ringing of the president’s bell.  Had the prisoner anything to say in his defense?  A great silence, unbroken even by the prisoner himself.  He had been eloquent for Lucien Bruslart, for himself he had nothing to say.  Again a storm of hisses; heads thrust forward, hands flung out that would tear him in pieces could they reach him.  Uproar and confusion, a yelled demand for condemnation.  Nothing else was possible.

Still with set face, with firm purpose, Raymond Latour waited in the Conciergerie.  No friend would come to see him, he knew that.  Some of those he had made use of and trusted were not in Paris, some had already proved his enemies, and none dared show sympathy even if they would.  He was alone, quite alone, without a single friend.

This day his name was not in the list, nor the next.  He wondered a little at the delay, but waited patiently, knowing that there was no uncertainty about the end.

“Raymond Latour.”

It was the first on the list to-day.  Without a word he walked into the dark passage, noticing none of the others who waited there, some pale and afraid, some as though they were starting upon a journey of pleasure.

“One, two, three tumbrils!  The guillotine was hungry this morning.  Raymond Latour was in the last tumbril.

“I was promised life—­I told all I knew—­there is a mistake.  Ask!  Let me wait until to-morrow—­for God’s sake let me wait until to-morrow!”

Latour looked at the frightened wretch who was literally thrown into the tumbril after him, but the expression on his face did not change; he did not speak.

The man continued to cry out until the tumbrils started, then with a wail of despair he fell on his knees, shaking in every limb, chattering to himself, whether oaths or prayers who shall say?

The tumbrils moved forward slowly.

The wretch upon his knees seemed to realize suddenly that he was not alone.  He looked up into the face of the man beside him.  Then rose slowly and touched him.

“Latour.”

There was no answer, no turning of the head even.

“Latour.  So this is how we meet at last.”

There were crowds in the streets, yelling crowds.  He spoke clearly so that the man might hear him, but there was no answer.

“Raymond Latour—­Latour—­this is how we meet, both damned and betrayed for the sake of a woman.”

No words answered him, but Latour turned and looked full into the eyes of Lucien Bruslart.

The tumbrils went forward slowly, a yelling mob on every side.