deeply stained
now with seventeen past days of inhumanity and miserable treachery to
come.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. CAPITULATION

What occurred within the inner cell of the Conciergerie prison within
the next half-hour of that 16th day of Pluviose in the year II of the
Republic is, perhaps, too well known to history to need or bear overfull
repetition.

Chroniclers intimate with the inner history of those infamous days have
told us how the chief agent of the Committee of General Security gave
orders one hour after midnight that hot soup, white bread and wine be
served to the prisoner, who for close on fourteen days previously had
been kept on short rations of black bread and water; the sergeant in
charge of the guard-room watch for the night also received strict orders
that that same prisoner was on no account to be disturbed until the hour
of six in the morning, when he was to be served with anything in the way
of breakfast that he might fancy.

All this we know, and also that citizen Heron, having given all
necessary orders for the morning's expedition, returned to the
Conciergerie, and found his colleague Chauvelin waiting for him in the
guard-room.

"Well?" he asked with febrile impatience--"the prisoner?"

"He seems better and stronger," replied Chauvelin.

"Not too well, I hope?"

"No, no, only just well enough."

"You have seen him--since his supper?"

"Only from the doorway. It seems he ate and drank hardly at all, and the
sergeant had some difficulty in keeping him awake until you tame."

"Well, now for the letter," concluded Heron with the same marked
feverishness of manner which sat so curiously on his uncouth
personality. "Pen, ink and paper, sergeant!" he commanded.

"On the table, in the prisoner's cell, citizen," replied the sergeant.

He preceded the two citizens across the guard-room to the doorway, and
raised for them the iron bar, lowering it back after them.

The next moment Heron and Chauvelin were once more face to face with
their prisoner.

Whether by accident or design the lamp had been so placed that as the
two men approached its light fell full upon their faces, while that of
the prisoner remained in shadow. He was leaning forward with both
elbows on the table, his thin, tapering fingers toying with the pen and
ink-horn which had been placed close to his hand.

"I trust that everything has been arranged for your comfort, Sir Percy?"
Chauvelin asked with a sarcastic little smil