ing jostled,
soldiers, sentinels; then long, interminable corridors, more crowd and
more soldiers, winding stairs, courtyards and gates; finally the open
street, the quay, and the river beyond.

An incessant hammering went on in his temples, and that veil never
lifted from before his eyes. Now it was lurid and red, as if stained
with blood; anon it was white like a shroud but it was always there.

Through it he saw the Pont-au-Change, which he crossed, then far down
on the Quai de l'Ecole to the left the corner house behind St. Germain
l'Auxerrois, where Blakeney lodged--Blakeney, who for the sake of a
stranger had forgotten all about his comrade and Jeanne.

Through it he saw the network of streets which separated him from the
neighbourhood of the Temple, the gardens of ruined habitations, the
closely-shuttered and barred windows of ducal houses, then the mean
streets, the crowded drinking bars, the tumble-down shops with their
dilapidated awnings.

He saw with eyes that did not see, heard the tumult of daily life round
him with ears that did not hear. Jeanne was in the Temple prison,
and when its grim gates closed finally for the night, he--Armand, her
chevalier, her lover, her defender--would be within its walls as near to
cell No. 29 as bribery, entreaty, promises would help him to attain.

Ah! there at last loomed the great building, the pointed bastions cut
through the surrounding gloom as with a sable knife.

Armand reached the gate; the sentinels challenged him; he replied:

"Vive le roi!" shouting wildly like one who is drunk.

He was hatless, and his clothes were saturated with moisture. He tried
to pass, but crossed bayonets barred the way. Still he shouted:

"Vive le roi!" and "A bas la republique!"

"Allons! the fellow is drunk!" said one of the soldiers.

Armand fought like a madman; he wanted to reach that gate. He shouted,
he laughed, and he cried, until one of the soldiers in a fit of rage
struck him heavily on the head.

Armand fell backwards, stunned by the blow; his foot slipped on the wet
pavement. Was he indeed drunk, or was he dreaming? He put his hand up to
his forehead; it was wet, but whether with the rain or with blood he
did not know; but for the space of one second he tried to collect his
scattered wits.

"Citizen St. Just!" said a quiet voice at his elbow.

Then, as he looked round dazed, feeling a firm, pleasant grip on his
arm, the same quiet voice continued calmly:

"Pe