f a
dozen soldiers came walking out of the courtyard. They were dressed in
the uniform of the town-guard, but had evidently been picked out of the
rank and file, for all six were exceptionally tall and stalwart, and
towered above the sentinel, who saluted and presented arms as they
marched out of the gate.

In the midst of them walked a slight, dark figure, clad entirely in
black, save for the tricolour scarf round his waist.

The crowd of watchers gazed on the little party with suddenly awakened
interest.

"Who is it?" whispered some of the men.

"The citizen-governor," suggested one.

"The new public executioner," ventured another.

"No! no!" quoth Pierre Maxime, the doyen of Boulogne fishermen, and a
great authority on every matter public or private with the town; "no, no
he is the man who has come down from Paris, the friend of Robespierre.
He makes the laws now, the citizen-governor even must obey him. 'Tis he
who made the law that if the woman up yonder should escape..."

"Hush!... sh!... sh!..." came in frightened accents from the crowd.

"Hush, Pierre Maxine!... the Citizen might hear thee," whispered the man
who stood closest to the old fisherman; "the Citizen might hear thee,
and think that we rebelled...."

"What are these people doing here?' queried Chauvelin as he passed out
into the street.

"They are watching the prison, Citizen," replied the sentinel, whom he
had thus addressed, "lest the female prisoner should attempt to escape."

With a satisfied smile, Chauvelin turned toward the Town Hall, closely
surrounded by his escort. The crowd watched him and the soldiers as
they quickly disappeared in the gloom, then they resumed the stolid,
wearisome vigil of the night.

The old Beffroi now tolled the midnight hour, the one solitary light in
the old Fort was extinguished, and after that the frowning pile remained
dark and still.

Chapter XXIX: The National Fete

"Citizens of Boulogne, awake!"

They had not slept, only some of them had fallen into drowsy somnolence,
heavy and nerve-racking, worse indeed than any wakefulness.

Within the houses, the women too had kept the tedious vigil, listening
for every sound, dreading every bit of news, which the wind might waft
in through the small, open windows.

If one prisoner escaped, every family in Boulogne would be deprived of
the bread-winner. Therefore the women wept, and tried to remember those
Paters and Aves which the tyranny of