t in this cursed hole?" he called
out to the sergeant.

"Only a few moments longer, citizen. Citizen Chauvelin will be back soon
with the guard."

A quarter of an hour later the clatter of cavalry horses on the rough,
uneven pavement drew Marguerite's attention. She lowered the carriage
window and looked out. Chauvelin had just returned with the new escort.
He was on horseback; his horse's bridle, since he was but an indifferent
horseman, was held by one of the troopers.

Outside the inn he dismounted; evidently he had taken full command of
the expedition, and scarcely referred to Heron, who spent most of his
time cursing at the men or the weather when he was not lying half-asleep
and partially drunk in the inside of the carriage.

The changing of the guard was now accomplished quietly and in perfect
order. The new escort consisted of twenty mounted men, including a
sergeant and a corporal, and of two drivers, one for each coach. The
cortege now was filed up in marching order; ahead a small party of
scouts, then the coach with Marguerite and Armand closely surrounded by
mounted men, and at a short distance the second coach with citizen Heron
and the prisoner equally well guarded.

Chauvelin superintended all the arrangements himself. He spoke for some
few moments with the sergeant, also with the driver of his own coach. He
went to the window of the other carriage, probably in order to consult
with citizen Heron, or to take final directions from the prisoner,
for Marguerite, who was watching him, saw him standing on the step and
leaning well forward into the interior, whilst apparently he was taking
notes on a small tablet which he had in his hand.

A small knot of idlers had congregated in the narrow street; men in
blouses and boys in ragged breeches lounged against the verandah of
the inn and gazed with inexpressive, stolid eyes on the soldiers, the
coaches, the citizen who wore the tricolour scarf. They had seen this
sort of thing before now--aristos being conveyed to Paris under arrest,
prisoners on their way to or from Amiens. They saw Marguerite's pale
face at the carriage window. It was not the first woman's face they had
seen under like circumstances, and there was no special interest about
this aristo. They were smoking or spitting, or just lounging idly
against the balustrade. Marguerite wondered if none of them had wife,
sister, or mother, or child; if every sympathy, every kind of feeling in
these poor