ap behind
him, thus giving me just a disguise that suited me best.

The night--it was July then--seemed interminable; and with morning a
drenching rain set in that found its way through the straw and soaked me
to the skin. I heard the city without gradually waking up. Market-
carts rumbled in the roads, the shrill cry of the street vendors sounded
in the air, and above all was the heavy splash of the rain.

At last a long low sound fell on my ear, which I knew only too well to
proclaim the approach of the carts crawling in our direction. Nearer
and nearer they came till they stopped at the gate, and the familiar
bell tolled out. I heard the footsteps of the warder plashing across
the yard, growling at the rain. Then I heard the grating of the bolts
as they were slowly drawn back, and the creaking of the gates on their
hinges. Then the rumble began again, and one by one the carts drew up
into the yard. There were eight of them, and as I peeped out I could
see that the last three were all in charge of one driver, who rode on
the leader. The warder, impatient to return to shelter, called to this
man to see the bolts made fast after him, which the man, a surly fellow
and hardly sober, grumblingly promised to do at his own convenience.

Now was my chance. I slipped from my hiding-place, clad in the driver's
blouse and peaked cap, with a whip over my shoulder and a straw between
my lips, and strolled quietly and to all appearance unconcernedly out
into the street. If any saw me come out, they probably set me down as
one of the tumbrel drivers on his way to breakfast, and paid me no more
heed than such a fellow deserved; indeed less, for on that day of all
others Paris was in a tremendous ferment. The tocsin was ringing from
the steeples, there was a rush of people towards the Tuileries, and
cries of "_A bas Robespierre_"--the most wonderful cry Paris had heard
yet.

In the midst of it all I walked unchallenged to the Quai Necker. Alas!
any hopes I had of comfort there were vanished. The familiar top storey
stood empty, with the hole still in the roof, and six doors away, where
I had left them last, the attic was empty too.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

A VOICE IN THE DARK.

All Paris seemed up that morning, hurrying to the scene of the day's
wonder. There was a rumour of fighting in the streets, of guns being
pointed against the sacred doors of the Convention, of tyrants fallen
and heads to fall. To Paris, sick