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Tell me the sentence!—Could our judges look, Without relenting, on thy silvery hair? Was there not mercy, father?—Will they not Restore us to our home?

D'Aubigné.Yes, my poor child! They send us home.

Blanche.Oh! shall we gaze again On the bright Loire?—Will the old hamlet spire, And the grey turret of our own château, Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms? Will the kind voices of our villagers, The loving laughter in their children's eyes, Welcome us back at last?—But how is this?— Father! thy glance is clouded—on thy brow There sits no joy!

D'Aubigné.Upon my brow, dear girl, There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace As may befit the Christian, who receives And recognizes, in submissive awe, The summons of his God.

Blanche.Thou dost not mean—