ttened themselves in the angles of the
dank walls, as the noisy carousers drew nigh. Then as the torches and
lanthorns detached themselves from out the evening shadows, hand would
clutch hand and hearts would beat with agonized suspense, whilst the
dark and shapeless forms would try to appear smaller, flatter, less
noticeable than before.

And when the crowd had passed noisily along, leaving behind it a trail
of torn finery, of glittering tinsel and of scarlet berries, when the
boom of the big drum and the grating noise of the brass trumpets had
somewhat died away, wan faces, pale with anxiety, would peer from out
the darkness, and nervous hands would grasp with trembling fingers the
small bundles of poor belongings tied up hastily in view of flight.

At seven o'clock, so 'twas said, the cannon would boom from the old
Beffroi. The guard would throw open the prison gates, and those who had
something or somebody to hide, and those who had a great deal to fear,
would be free to go whithersoever they chose.

And mothers, sisters, sweethearts stood watching by the gates, for
loved ones to-night would be set free, all along of the capture of that
English spy, the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Chapter XXXI: Final Dispositions

To Chauvelin the day had been one of restless inquietude and nervous
apprehension.

Collot d'Herbois harassed him with questions and complaints intermixed
with threats but thinly veiled. At his suggestion Gayole had been
transformed into a fully-manned, well-garrisoned fortress. Troops
were to be seen everywhere, on the stairs and in the passages, the
guard-rooms and offices: picked men from the municipal guard, and the
company which had been sent down from Paris some time ago.

Chauvelin had not resisted these orders given by his colleague. He knew
quite well that Marguerite would make no attempt at escape, but he had
long ago given up all hope of persuading a man of the type of Collot
d'Herbois that a woman of her temperament would never think of saving
her own life at the expense of others, and that Sir Percy Blakeney, in
spite of his adoration for his wife, would sooner see her die before
him, than allow the lives of innocent men and women to be the price of
hers.

Collot was one of those brutish sots--not by any means infrequent among
the Terrorists of that time--who, born in the gutter, still loved to
wallow in his native element, and who measured all his fellow-creatures
by the same stan