ntrusted me with the
delicate mission," is hardly the way to describe an order given under
penalty of death.

But let it pass.

"... that four days from this date, at one hour after sunset, the man
who goes by the mysterious name of the Scarlet Pimpernel will be on the
southern ramparts of Boulogne, at the extreme southern corner of the
town."

"Four days from this date..." and Citizen Chauvelin's letter is dated
the nineteenth of September, 1793.

"Too much of an aristocrat--Monsieur le Marquis Chauvelin..." sneers
Merlin, the Jacobin. "He does not know that all good citizens had called
that date the 28th Fructidor, Year I. of the Republic."

"No matter," retorts Robespierre with impatient frigidity, "whatever we
may call the day it was forty-eight hours ago, and in forty-eight hours
more than damned Englishman will have run his head into a noose, from
which, an I mistake not, he'll not find it easy to extricate himself."

"And you believe in Citizen Chauvelin's assertion," commented Danton
with a lazy shrug of the shoulders.

"Only because he asks for help from us," quoth Robespierre drily; "he is
sure that the man will be there, but not sure if he can tackle him."

But many were inclined to think that Chauvelin's letter was an idle
boast. They knew nothing of the circumstances which had caused that
letter to be written: they could not conjecture how it was that the
ex-ambassador could be so precise in naming the day and hour when the
enemy of France would be at the mercy of those whom he had outraged and
flouted.

Nevertheless Citizen Chauvelin asks for help, and help must not be
denied him. There must be no shadow of blame upon the actions of the
Committee of Public Safety.

Chauvelin had been weak once, had allowed the prize to slip through his
fingers; it must not occur again. He has a wonderful head for devising
plans, but he needs a powerful hand to aid him, so that he may not fail
again.

Collot d'Herbois, just home from Lyons and Tours, is the right man in
an emergency like this. Citizen Collot is full of ideas; the inventor
of the "Noyades" is sure to find a means of converting Boulogne into one
gigantic prison out of which the mysterious English adventurer will find
it impossible to escape.

And whilst the deliberations go on, whilst this committee of butchers
are busy slaughtering in imagination the game they have not yet
succeeded in bringing down, there comes another messenger from Citizen