“I remember it well.”

“To-morrow it shall be thine!”

“Ah, that dear to-morrow!” And, gently laying down her child,—­for it slept now,—­she threw herself on his breast, and pointed to the dawn that began greyly to creep along the skies.

There, in those horror-breathing walls, the day-star looked through the dismal bars upon those three beings, in whom were concentrated whatever is most tender in human ties; whatever is most mysterious in the combinations of the human mind; the sleeping Innocence; the trustful Affection, that, contented with a touch, a breath, can foresee no sorrow; the weary Science that, traversing all the secrets of creation, comes at last to Death for their solution, and still clings, as it nears the threshold, to the breast of Love.  Thus, within, the within,—­a dungeon; without, the without,—­stately with marts and halls, with palaces and temples; Revenge and Terror, at their dark schemes and counter-schemes; to and fro, upon the tide of the shifting passions, reeled the destinies of men and nations; and hard at hand that day-star, waning into space, looked with impartial eye on the church tower and the guillotine.  Up springs the blithesome morn.  In yon gardens the birds renew their familiar song.  The fishes are sporting through the freshening waters of the Seine.  The gladness of divine nature, the roar and dissonance of mortal life, awake again:  the trader unbars his windows; the flower-girls troop gayly to their haunts; busy feet are tramping to the daily drudgeries that revolutions which strike down kings and kaisars, leave the same Cain’s heritage to the boor; the wagons groan and reel to the mart; Tyranny, up betimes, holds its pallid levee; Conspiracy, that hath not slept, hears the clock, and whispers to its own heart, “The hour draws near.”  A group gather, eager-eyed, round the purlieus of the Convention Hall; to-day decides the sovereignty of France,—­about the courts of the Tribunal their customary hum and stir.  No matter what the hazard of the die, or who the ruler, this day eighty heads shall fall!

....

And she slept so sweetly.  Wearied out with joy, secure in the presence of the eyes regained, she had laughed and wept herself to sleep; and still in that slumber there seemed a happy consciousness that the loved was by,—­the lost was found.  For she smiled and murmured to herself, and breathed his name often, and stretched out her arms, and sighed if they touched him not.  He gazed upon her as he stood apart,—­with what emotions it were vain to say.  She would wake no more to him; she could not know how dearly the safety of that sleep was purchased.  That morrow she had so yearned for,—­it had come at last.  How would she greet the eve?  Amidst all the exquisite hopes with which love and youth contemplate the future, her eyes had closed.  Those hopes still lent their iris-colours to her dreams.  She would wake to live!  To-morrow, and the Reign of Terror was no more; the prison gates would be opened,—­she would go forth, with their child, into that summer-world of light.  And he?—­he turned, and his eye fell upon the child; it was broad awake, and that clear, serious, thoughtful look which it mostly wore, watched him with a solemn steadiness.  He bent over and kissed its lips.