."

"You have in your charge an emigre, Jeanne St. Clair. She is to be
removed forthwith to the Conciergerie. There is the order."

Mathon took up a lantern and by the dim light read the paper handed to
him. It was all in order, the full name of the emigre duly inserted, the
genuine signature of the governor of the prison at the foot of the
document. The jailer looked from the paper into the face of the man who
had handed it to him.

"Do they set over prisoners fools who cannot read?" asked the man.

"No; the paper is in order," Mathon answered.

"Obey it then. Fetch out the emigre."

Mathon folded up the paper and placed it in his pocket.

"It is down this passage," and his keys jingled. His fingers trembled a
little as the men followed him. A few yards from the door the men
halted.

"Bring her quickly. We have other work to do to-night more important
than this."

Mathon unlocked the door and entered the room.

"Jeanne St. Clair, your turn has come."

The woman moved slowly.

"Quickly," said Mathon. "Your head's still in its place. Wrap the hood
of your cloak well round it. There's no need to feel cold before the
time. Don't speak," he added in a whisper.

They went out together, Mathon locking the door again.

"This is the prisoner."

The officers without a word placed themselves on either side of her, and
they went quickly along the corridor leaving the jailer alone, one hand
holding his keys, the other pressed to his pocket to make sure that the
order he had obeyed still rested there.

A _berlin_ stood in the little square before the prison, the driver half
asleep. He had no imagination, this driver, and this square was to him
as any other in Paris. Yet on another night, not long since, how
different it had been! Then a mob filled it, filled it to overflowing, a
mob mad with lust of blood and murder, armed with sabers, pikes and
hatchets, any weapon that came to hand. Within the prison sat a sudden
jury, a mockery of Justice; without stood Fate. A brief questioning, the
veriest caricature of a trial, and prisoners were escorted to the doors,
but no farther. The rest of the journey they must go alone. A lane
opened before them, all must traverse it, old and young, man or woman.
It was a short journey, and amid frenzied shrieks they fell under the
sabers and the pikes. There was no mercy, only red death and horror.
Rain had fallen in Paris since then, yet surely there must still be
blood in the gu