lowed this announcement. Hope was just beginning to
crowd anxiety and sullenness out of the way.

"Then poor Andre Legrand will be pardoned," whispered a voice suddenly;
"he was to have been guillotined to-day."

"And Denise Latour! she was innocent enough, the gentle pigeon."

"And they'll let poor Abbe Foucquet out of prison too."

"And Francois!"

"And poor Felicite, who is blind!"

"M. l'Abbe would be wise to leave Boulogne with the children."

"He will too: thou canst be sure of that!"

"It is not good to be a priest just now!"

"Bah! calotins are best dead than alive."

But some in the crowd were silent, others whispered eagerly.

"Thinkest thou it would be safer for us to get out of the country whilst
we can?" said one of the men in a muffled tone, and clutching nervously
at a woman's wrist.

"Aye! aye! it might leak out about that boat we procured for..."

"Sh!... I was thinking of that..."

"We can go to my aunt Lebrun in Belgium..."

Others talked in whispers of England or the New Land across the seas:
they were those who had something to hide, money received from refugee
aristocrats, boats sold to would-be emigres, information withheld,
denunciations shirked: the amnesty would not last long, 'twas best to be
safely out of the way.

"In the meanwhile, my cabbages," quoth Auguste sententiously, "are you
not grateful to Citizen Robespierre, who has sent this order specially
down from Paris?"

"Aye! aye!" assented the crowd cheerfully.

"Hurrah for Citizen Robespierre!"

"Viva la Republique!"

"And you will enjoy yourselves to-day?"

"That we will!"

"Processions?"

"Aye! with music and dancing."

Out there, far away, beyond the harbour, the grey light of dawn was
yielding to the crimson glow of morning. The rain had ceased and heavy
slaty clouds parted here and there, displaying glints of delicate
turquoise sky, and tiny ethereal vapours in the dim and remote distance
of infinity, flecked with touches of rose and gold.

The towers and pinnacles of old Boulogne detached themselves one by one
from the misty gloom of night. The old bell of the Beffroi tolled the
hour of six. Soon the massive cupola of Notre Dame was clothed in purple
hues, and the gilt cross on St. Joseph threw back across the square a
blinding ray of gold.

The town sparrows began to twitter, and from far out at sea in the
direction of Dunkirk there came the muffled boom of cannon.

"And remember, my pigeons," a