eeling
was one of loathing and hatred, but at the same moment there flashed
through his mind the thought that chance had favoured him beyond
his hopes, and that the comedy which he had planned with Victor
to carry out upon the person of Marat had come to pass without
premeditation, but with Robespierre as the chief actor.

But so surprised and so delighted was he that for a minute he sat
unable to say a word. Robespierre was gratified at the effect which
his name had produced. His was a strangely-mixed character--at
once timid and bold, shrinking from personal danger, yet ready to
urge the extremest measures. Simple in his tastes, and yet very vain
and greedy of applause. Domestic and affectionate in his private
character, but ready to shed a river of blood in his public capacity.
Pure in morals; passionless in his resolves; incorruptible and
inflexible; the more dangerous because he had neither passion nor
hate; because he had not, like Danton and Marat, a lust for blood,
but because human life to him was as nothing, because had he
considered it necessary that half France should die for the benefit
of the other half he would have signed their death-warrant without
emotion or hesitation.

"You are surprised, young man," he said, "but the ways of fate are
inscrutable. The interposition of a youth has thwarted the schemes
of the enemies of France. Had you been but ten seconds later I should
have ceased to be, and one of the humble instruments by which fate
is working for the regeneration of the people would have perished."

While Robespierre was speaking Harry had rapidly thought over the
role which it would be best for him to adopt. Should he avow his
real character and ask for an order for the liberation of Marie as
a recompense for the service he had rendered Robespierre, or should
he retain his present character and obtain Robespierre's confidence?
There was danger in an open appeal, for, above all things, Robespierre
prided himself upon his incorruptibility, and he might consider
that to free a prisoner for service rendered to himself would be
a breach of his duty to France. He resolved, therefore, to keep
silence at present, reserving an appeal to Robespierre's gratitude
for the last extremity.

"Pardon me, monsieur," he said, after he had rapidly arrived at
this conclusion; "my emotion was naturally great at finding that
I had unwittingly been the means of saving the life of one on whom
the eyes of France a