eing egged on by Heron. The mysterious Englishman,
about whom so many eerie tales were told! Well, he had supernatural
powers, and twenty to one might be nothing to him if the devil was on
his side. Therefore a blow on his forearm with the butt-end of a bayonet
was useful for disabling his right hand, and soon the left arm with a
dislocated shoulder hung limp by his side. Then he was bound with cords.

The vein of luck had given out. The gambler had staked more than usual
and had lost; but he knew how to lose, just as he had always known how
to win.

"Those d--d brutes are trussing me like a fowl," he murmured with
irrepressible gaiety at the last.

Then the wrench on his bruised arms as they were pulled roughly back by
the cords caused the veil of unconsciousness to gather over his eyes.

"And Jeanne was safe, Armand," he shouted with a last desperate effort;
"those devils have lied to you and tricked you into this ... Since
yesterday she is out of prison... in the house... you know...."

After that he lost consciousness.

And this occurred on Tuesday, January 21st, in the year 1794, or, in
accordance with the new calendar, on the 2nd Pluviose, year II of the
Republic.

It is chronicled in the Moniteur of the 3rd Pluviose that, "on the
previous evening, at half-past ten of the clock, the Englishman known
as the Scarlet Pimpernel, who for three years has conspired against the
safety of the Republic, was arrested through the patriotic exertions
of citizen Chauvelin, and conveyed to the Conciergerie, where he now
lies--sick, but closely guarded. Long live the Republic!"

PART II.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE NEWS

The grey January day was falling, drowsy, and dull into the arms of
night.

Marguerite, sitting in the dusk beside the fire in her small boudoir,
shivered a little as she drew her scarf closer round her shoulders.

Edwards, the butler, entered with the lamp. The room looked peculiarly
cheery now, with the delicate white panelling of the wall glowing tinder
the soft kiss of the flickering firelight and the steadier glow of the
rose-shaded lamp.

"Has the courier not arrived yet, Edwards?" asked Marguerite, fixing the
impassive face of the well-drilled servant with her large purple-rimmed
eyes.

"Not yet, m'lady," he replied placidly.

"It is his day, is it not?"

"Yes, m'lady. And the forenoon is his time. But there have been heavy
rains, and the roads must be rare muddy. He must have bee