lower tone.

"Surely we had better go back to Le Bosquet."

"No, no, you little fool," cried the agonised old man, grasping hold of
her, and dragging her towards himself.

Louis shouted from the box, as Prince lashed his horses onwards, "We
shall be in the midst of them, sir, this way."

"Drive on," was still the command. "Drive through everything to get
home!" As he clasped his arms round Euphrosyne, and pressed her so
closely that she could scarcely breathe, heaping his cloak upon her
head, she heard and felt him murmuring to himself--

"To Le Bosquet! No, indeed! anywhere but there! Once at home--she once
safe--and then--"

Euphrosyne would have been glad to see a little of what appeared--to
know something of what to expect. Once or twice she struggled to raise
her head; but this only made the convulsive clasp closer than before.
All she knew was, that Pierre or the men on the box seemed to speak,
from time to time; for the passionate "Drive on!"

"Forward!" was repeated. She also fancied that they must at last be in
the midst of a crowd; for the motion of the carriage seemed to be
interrupted by a sort of hustling on either side. Her heart beat so
tumultuously, however, and the sense of suffocation was so strong, that
she was sure of nothing but that she felt as if dying. Once more she
struggled for air. At the same moment, her grandfather started--almost
bounded from his seat, and relaxed his hold of her. She thought she had
heard firearms. She raised her head; but all was confusion. There was
smoke--there was the glare of torches--there was a multitude of shining
black faces, and her grandfather lying back, as if asleep, in the corner
of the carriage.

"Drive on!" she heard Pierre cry. The whip cracked, the horses plunged
and scrambled, and in another moment broke through the crowd. The
yelling, the lights, the smoke, were left behind; the air blew fresh;
and there was only calm starlight without, as before.

The old man's hand fell when lifted. He did not move when she stroked
his cheek. He did not answer when she spoke. She put her hand to his
forehead, and it was wet.

"Pierre! Pierre!" she cried, "he is shot! he is dead!"

"I feared so, Mademoiselle. Drive on, Prince!"

In an inconceivably short time, they were at their own door. Pierre
looked into the carriage, felt his master's wrist and heart, spoke
softly to Prince, and they drove on again--only past the corner--only to