if you seek refuge elsewhere, then by the hand of an assassin.

"Look to it, Citizen Chauvelin! for there will be no escape this time,
not even if the mightiest tyrant on earth tried to protect you, not even
if you succeeded in building up an empire and placing yourself upon a
throne."

His thin, strident voice echoed weirdly in the small, close boudoir.
Chauvelin made no reply. There was nothing that he could say. All that
Robespierre had put so emphatically before him, he had fully realised,
even whilst he was forming his most daring plans.

It was an "either--or" this time, uttered to HIM now. He thought again
of Marguerite Blakeney, and the terrible alternative he had put before
HER less than a year ago.

Well! he was prepared to take the risk. He would not fail again. He was
going to England under more favourable conditions this time. He knew who
the man was, whom he was bidden to lure to France and to death.

And he returned Robespierre's threatening gaze boldly and unflinchingly;
then he prepared to go. He took up his hat and cloak, opened the door
and peered for a moment into the dark corridor, wherein, in the far
distance, the steps of a solitary sentinel could be faintly heard: he
put on his hat, turned to look once more into the room where Robespierre
stood quietly watching him, and went his way.

Chapter IV: The Richmond Gala

It was perhaps the most brilliant September ever known in England, where
the last days of dying summer are nearly always golden and beautiful.

Strange that in this country, where that same season is so peculiarly
radiant with a glory all its own, there should be no special expression
in the language with which to accurately name it.

So we needs must call it "fin d'ete": the ending of the summer; not the
absolute end, nor yet the ultimate departure, but the tender lingering
of a friend obliged to leave us anon, yet who fain would steal a day
here and there, a week or so in which to stay with us: who would make
that last pathetic farewell of his endure a little while longer still,
and brings forth in gorgeous array for our final gaze all that he has
which is most luxuriant, most desirable, most worthy of regret.

And in this year of grace 1793, departing summer had lavished the
treasures of her palette upon woodland and river banks; had tinged the
once crude green of larch and elm with a tender hue of gold, had brushed
the oaks with tones of warm russet, and put p