number was known as Ovide Demers, nephew of Little Mother Soulard. The
day that had just expired was to have been his wedding-day, and little
Marie Ethier, whom he had played with when a child, was to have been
his wife. All night long, as he tossed about in his cell, he had been
thinking of her and of his two old aunts who had taken him to their
meagre home when his parents died, and had watched over and cared for
him with the love of a mother. They had believed in him--although,
alas! his guilt was so glaringly apparent--even when the whole world
had forsaken him. So, because of all these things, his heart, on this
gloomy morning, was almost breaking; little wonder that his voice
nearly failed as he answered to the number that now stood for his
name.

The file of convicts was broken up into gangs; "317" belonged to the
stone-breaking gang, and worked outside the frowning walls. As they
slowly passed out of the gate to the road, the sentries unswung their
rifles--many successful attempts to escape had been made by convicts
in the past.

Slowly the men were marched along the road, till they came to the
great mound of stones, heaped against the walls, where they were put
to work. Watchfully the guards stood near by, while the sentries,
equally alert, paced the high walls.

Scarcely had the hammers begun their monotonous chorus, when the
tragedy occurred. Convict 317 was seen to let his hammer suddenly
fall, and gaze with terrified eyes into the hole near by. "Marie!
Marie!" he shouted, in a voice charged with fear. Just as he reached
the edge of the incline, and was about to jump down and clasp in his
arms the dear, bedraggled figure, clad in the torn bridal robes, the