turn did her very best not to render his position more
cruel than it already was.

A message came to him twice during those forty-eight hours from Francois
and Felicite, a little note scribbled by the boy, or a token sent by the
blind girl, to tell the Abbe that the children were safe and well, that
they would be safe and well so long as the Citizeness with the name
unknown remained closely guarded by him in room No. 6.

When these messages came, the old man would sigh and murmur something
about the good God: and hope, which perhaps had faintly risen in
Marguerite's heart within the last hour or so, would once more sink back
into the abyss of uttermost despair.

Outside the monotonous walk of the sentry sounded like the perpetual
thud of a hammer beating upon her bruised temples.

"What's to be done? My God? what's to be done?"

Where was Percy now?

"How to reach him!... Oh, God! grant me light!"

The one real terror which she felt was that she would go mad. Nay! that
she was in a measure mad already. For hours now,--or was it days?... or
years?... she had heard nothing save that rhythmic walk of the sentinel,
and the kindly, tremulous voice of the Abbe whispering consolations,
or murmuring prayers in her ears, she had seen nothing save that prison
door, of rough deal, painted a dull grey, with great old-fashioned lock,
and hinges rusty with the damp of ages.

She had kept her eyes fixed on that door until they burned and ached
with well-nigh intolerable pain; yet she felt that she could not look
elsewhere, lest she missed the golden moment when the bolts would be
drawn, and that dull, grey door would swing slowly on its rusty hinges.

Surely, surely, that was the commencement of madness!

Yet for Percy's sake, because he might want her, because he might have
need of her courage and of her presence of mind, she tried to keep her
wits about her. But it was difficult! oh! terribly difficult! especially
when the shade of evening began to gather in, and peopled the squalid,
whitewashed room with innumerable threatening ghouls.

Then when the moon came up, a silver ray crept in through the tiny
window and struck full upon that grey door, making it look weird and
spectral like the entrance to a house of ghosts.

Even now as there was a distinct sound of the pushing of bolts and bars,
Marguerite thought that she was the prey of hallucinations. The Abbe
Foucquet was sitting in the remote and darkest corner of the