final feminine instinct. At her feet lay a little goat, bound. The condemned girl held together with her teeth her imperfectly fastened shift. One would have said that she suffered still more in her misery from being thus exposed almost naked to the eyes of all.

Alas! modesty is not made for such shocks.

“Jesus!” said Fleur-de-Lys hastily to the captain. “Look fair cousin, ‘tis that wretched Bohemian with the goat.”

So saying, she turned to Phoebus. His eyes were fixed on the tumbrel. He was very pale.

“What Bohemian with the goat?” he stammered.

“What!” resumed Fleur-de-Lys, “do you not remember?”