cks
struck one. "There is but another now," he thought.

He heard footsteps. The door was opened, and there stood before him,
quiet, intent, and smiling, Sydney Carton.

"Darnay," he said, "I bring you a request from your wife."

"What is it?"

"There is no time--you must comply. Take off your boots and coat, and
put on mine."

"Carton, there is no escaping from this place. It is madness."

"Do I ask you to escape?" said Carton, forcing the changes upon him.

"Now sit at the table and write what I dictate."

"To whom do I address it?"

"To no one."

"If you remember," said Carton, dictating, "the words that passed
between us long ago, you will comprehend this when you see it. I am
thankful that the time has come when I can prove them." Carton's hand
was withdrawn from his breast, and slowly and softly moved down the
writer's face. For a few seconds Darnay struggled faintly, Carton's hand
held firmly at his nostrils; then he fell senseless to the ground.

Carton called quietly to the turnkey, who looked in and went again as
Carton was putting the paper in Darnay's breast. He came back with two
men. They raised the unconscious figure and carried it away.

The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of
listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote
suspicion or alarm. There was none. Presently his door opened, and a
gaoler looked in, merely saying: "Follow me," whereupon Carton followed
him into a dark room. As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, a young
woman, with a slight, girlish figure, came to speak to him.

"Citizen Evremonde," she said, "I am a poor little seamstress, who was
with you in La Force."

He murmured an answer.

"I heard you were released."

"I was, and was taken again and condemned."

"If I may ride with you, will you let me hold your hand?"

As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
them.

"Are you dying for him?" she whispered. "Oh, you will let me hold your
hand?"

"Hush! Yes, my poor sister, to the last."

That afternoon a coach going out of Paris drove up to the Barrier.
"Papers!" demanded the guard. The papers are handed out and read.

"Alexandre Manette, Lucie Manette, her child. Jarvis Lorry, banker,
English. Sydney Carton, advocate, English. Which is he?"

He lies here, in a corner, apparently in a swoon. He is in bad health.

"Behold your papers, countersigned."

"One can depart, citizen?"