Then the insolence
of the brutal guard, the gaping crowd, the scaffold, and surly
executioner, the cold steel close to my neck, one terrible shock and
then--then--eternity--a vast blank--an unexpected world--doubt,
suspense, _perhaps_, total annihilation. "Merciful God!" I exclaimed in agony, "is there no hope? I ask not for
length of days, but only time to repent. Let me not be ushered into Thy
awful presence unprepared. Help me to my salvation, and fit me for my
end." Here I shut my eyes and prayed long and fervently, after which I
felt more resigned. I heard the clock toll forth the hour of midnight,
and most of the inmates of my cell were fast asleep. I now felt a chilly
sensation creep over me, an indescribable awe, as if in the presence of
something more than mortal. I opened my eyes and was aware of a vaporous
form or column of luminous ether standing beside me, which gradually
growing more distinct, shaped itself into the bearing and lineaments of
my father. My breath forsook me. My eyeballs straining from their
sockets, fixed the cloudy image without my having the power to remove
them, and I was unable to utter a word. Presently a low, though distant, voice (whether it proceeded from the
figure or not, I cannot say, for it seemed to come from a distance and
to sing through my head) uttered these words: "My son, it has pleased
Heaven for once that the innocent shall be spared and the wicked
punished. Fear not, for I am sent to protect you. Another has been
provided to take your place at the scaffold. In another minute he will
be here. When you hear the key turn in the lock and see the door open
wide, be ready to fly with me." "Fly with you, father!" I mentally cried. To which the spectre answered,
"I will envelop you in my essence, and being invisible myself to others,
will make you likewise invisible. Thus, as the new prisoner enters, we
will pass unseen by the turnkey through the open door, and so on, past
the guard, till we find ourselves outside. Once past all danger, I will
conduct you to the seashore, where a vessel awaits you to carry you back
to England." Each word was uttered slowly and distinctly, and whilst he was yet
speaking I heard the key grate against the lock, and the door of my
prison being flung open, a fresh prisoner entered, accompanied by the
jailor. What was my surprise when, by the light of the jailor's
lanthorn, I recognised my old rival, Jacques Millefleurs! I had no time to speculate on the "how" or the "wherefore" of his
arrest, but in obedience to my father's orders I passed fearlessly
through the open door, which was immediately closed after me. I passed
the guards, not without a certain tremor, yet no one appeared to see me
or impede my course. I hurried past the outer gate, and quickening my
pace, soon left the Bastille and its terrors far behind me. Morning at length dawned, and as I passed through the streets I observed
that nobody looked me in the face, but rather looked through me into
space, as if I were air. I was thus aware that I was still invisible, so
entering a diligence, arrived in due time at Calais. "This is the vessel," said the voice, in my ear. "Embark--the wind is
fair. Farewell," and I found myself once more alone and visible, for
sundry passers-by stared at me in surprise, no doubt wondering how I had
made my appearance there all of a sudden, not having been on the spot a
moment ago. I hastened to take my place on board, and having set sail, arrived,
after a good passage, at Dover. How the dear old white cliffs and the
grand old castle seemed to welcome me back to my native land! How
thankful I felt for my recent miraculous preservation! How joyfully I
leapt ashore, and with what buoyancy I trod my native land again! It was
as if I had never breathed the air of liberty till now. Once more in the land of the free, after a hearty meal, I took the
stage, and travelled until I reached my native village; and here I am,
gentlemen. *       *       *       *       *

"Upon my word, Mr. Suds," broke in Dr. Bleedem as the barber concluded
his story, "if you have many more tales of that sort you'll soon rival
the members of the club. What do you say, Mr. Oldstone. Was not that
story worthy of a member?" Mr. Oldstone could not go so far as to admit that any one member of the
club had ever been equalled in story telling by a barber, and that, too,
a Frenchified barber, but he condescended to give a complacent look of
approval at the young man without directly answering the question put to
him, and then addressing him said, as he pulled out his watch, "I don't
know if you are aware of it, Mr. Suds, but the absorbing interest that
you have forced us to take in your narrative has made us quite forget
church time, and it now wants but a quarter to one o'clock." "You don't say so," cried several voices at once. "Sure enough," said
another, "here are all the people coming out of church." "What!" cried our late story teller, in alarm, "have I really, through
my talk, prevented your honours from exhibiting your chins at divine
service, as a sample of my art? This is indeed a sin my soul must
answer." "Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone, "time past cannot be recalled, all
we can do is, to try to make up for it by going to church this
afternoon." "Stop! stop! Mr. Suds, whither away so fast," he cried, as he saw the
young man making towards the door with his tackle in his hand. "You
have not told us what became of Pauline. You finished your story rather
too abruptly; it requires a sequel. Come, let's hear it." The youth returned, after closing the door, and resting the tips of his
fingers against the back of a chair, proceeded gravely thus: "Little
more remains to be told, gentlemen. I heard from Pauline not long since. Her letter runs as nearly as I can recollect in these words:

"Dear Mr. Suds, I write to you for the first and last time. Perhaps I
should not have written to you at all. If I have erred from maiden
modesty in so doing, I hope you will excuse me. I really could not let
so great a friend pass from me without a word. I heard of your escape by
chance, and you may imagine my extreme delight and thankfulness at the
joyful news, though I never could learn in what manner you effected it. Enough for me that you are safe in your own free country, far from the
broils of civil discord and intestine misery. "Alas! my friend, if I may be allowed to call you by that name, I have
suffered much since we parted; so much, indeed, that were you to see me
now, you would not know me again for the gay capricious Pauline of
former times, whose eyes and complexion you were once wont to praise. Forgive me, my friend, forgive me, Mr. Suds, if I have already said too
much, and bear with me still, while I yet disburden my heart of more.