rd-hitters were passing the house. The smoke of
the torch-light was rolling in at the window; the tramping footsteps
struck heavier and heavier on the ground; the low sullen roar of the
Marseillaise was swelling to its loudest, as Lomaque referred for a
moment to his arrest-order, and then answered:

"To the prison of St. Lazare!"

CHAPTER III.

The head jailer of St. Lazare stood in the outer hall of the prison, two
days after the arrest at Trudaine's lodgings, smoking his morning pipe.
Looking toward the courtyard gate, he saw the wicket opened, and a
privileged man let in, whom he soon recognized as the chief agent of
the second section of Secret Police. "Why, friend Lomaque," cried the
jailer, advancing toward the courtyard, "what brings you here this
morning, business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure, this time, citizen. I have an idle hour or two to spare for a
walk. I find myself passing the prison, and I can't resist calling in
to see how my friend the head jailer is getting on." Lomaque spoke in
a surprisingly brisk and airy manner. His eyes were suffering under a
violent fit of weakness and winking; but he smiled, notwithstanding,
with an air of the most inveterate cheerfulness. Those old enemies of
his, who always distrusted him most when his eyes were most affected,
would have certainly disbelieved every word of the friendly speech he
had just made, and would have assumed it as a matter of fact that his
visit to the head jailer had some specially underhand business at the
bottom of it.

"How am I getting on?" said the jailer, shaking his head. "Overworked,
friend--overworked. No idle hours in our department. Even the guillotine
is getting too slow for us!"

"Sent off your batch of prisoners for trial this morning?" asked
Lomaque, with an appearance of perfect unconcern.

"No; they're just going," answered the other. "Come and have a look at
them." He spoke as if the prisoners were a collection of pictures on
view, or a set of dresses just made up. Lomaque nodded his head, still
with his air of happy, holiday carelessness. The jailer led the way
to an inner hall; and, pointing lazily with his pipe-stem, said: "Our
morning batch, citizen, just ready for the baking."

In one corner of the hall were huddled together more than thirty men and
women of all ranks and ages; some staring round them with looks of blank
despair; some laughing and gossiping recklessly. Near them lounged
a guard of "Patriots," smoki