s into the palms of his hands, so desperate an effort did he make
not to betray before the sergeant by look or sigh the exultation which
he felt.

For a moment he shaded his eyes against the glare of the lamp, but it
was not long before he had formulated a plan and was ready to give his
orders.

He asked for a list of prisoners already detained in the various forts.
The name of l'Abbe Foucquet with those of his niece and nephew attracted
his immediate attention. He asked for further information respecting
these people, heard that the boy was a widow's only son, the sole
supporter of his mother's declining years: the girl was ailing,
suffering from incipient phthisis, and was blind.

Pardi! the very thing! L'Abbe himself, the friend of Juliette Marny, the
pathetic personality around which this final adventure of the Scarlet
Pimpernel was intended to revolve! and these two young people! his
sister's children! one of them blind and ill, the other full of vigour
and manhood.

Citizen Chauvelin had soon made up his mind.

A few quick orders to the sergeant of the guard, and l'Abbe Foucquet,
weak, helpless and gentle, became the relentless jailer who would guard
Marguerite more securely than a whole regiment of loyal soldiers could
have done.

Then, having despatched a messenger to the Committee of Public Safety,
Chauvelin laid himself down to rest. Fate had not deceived him. He
had thought and schemed and planned, and events had shaped themselves
exactly as foreseen, and the fact that Marguerite Blakeney was at the
present moment a prisoner in his hands was merely the result of his own
calculations.

As for the Scarlet Pimpernel, Chauvelin could not very well conceive
what he would do under these present circumstances. The duel on the
southern ramparts had of course become a farce, not likely to be enacted
now that Marguerite's life was at stake. The daring adventurer was
caught in a network at last, from which all his ingenuity, all his wit,
his impudence and his amazing luck could never extricate him.

And in Chauvelin's mind there was still something more. Revenge was the
sweetest emotion his bruised and humbled pride could know: he had not
yet tasted its complete intoxicating joy: but every hour now his cup of
delight became more and more full: in a few days it would overflow.

In the meanwhile he was content to wait. The hours sped by and there
was no news yet of that elusive Pimpernel. Of Marguerite he knew