gh altar of his devotion. He knew that his must always be a silent
worship, that she could never know it. Then suddenly had come the
change, the tide of revolution. The people were the masters. He was of
the people, of growing importance among them. The impossible became the
possible. He had education, power he would have. Strong men have made
their appeal to women, the world over, in every age. Why should not this
woman love him? The very stars seemed to have fought for him. She would
be here to-morrow, here in Paris, in danger; here, in these rooms, with
no man so able to protect her as himself. He had spoken among his
fellows and won applause, could he not speak to just one woman in the
world and win love?

"This is a nest, not a cage," he murmured. "To-morrow, I shall speak
with her to-morrow."

It must have been almost at this same moment that Pauline Vaison flung
open the window and Lucien Bruslart looked in the direction of her
pointing finger toward the Place de la Revolution.

CHAPTER VIII

ON THE SOISY ROAD

The Lion d'Or on the Soisy Road was well known to travelers. Here the
last change of horses on the journey to Paris was usually made, or, as
was often the case, a halt for the night and arrangement made for an
early departure next morning. In these days it was no place of call for
those who would leave the capital secretly. Patriots were inclined to
congregate about the Lion d'Or and to ask awkward questions. Even in
fustian garments nobility hides with difficulty from keen and suspicious
eyes. For those traveling towards Paris, however, there was not such
close scrutiny. If they were enemies of the state, Paris would deal with
them. There were lynx-eyed men at the city barriers, and a multitude of
spies in every street.

To-day three travelers had halted at the Lion d'Or, travel-stained,
horses weary, going no farther until to-morrow. One of the three was a
woman, a peasant woman wearing the tri-color cockade, who was needed in
Paris to give evidence against an aristocrat. That was good news, and
better still, her fellow-travelers were undoubtedly true patriots and
had the will and the wherewithal to pay for wine. There was no need to
trouble the woman with questions. She might be left alone to gloat over
her revenge, while patriots made merry over their drinking.

She was alone, in a poor room for a guest, one of the poorest in the
inn, but good enough for a peasant woman. Her companions