animated his courage; he made a step towards his pursuer, who
retreated as he advanced. "Citizen, thou followest me," he said. "Thy
business?"

"Surely," answered the man, with a deprecating smile, "the streets are
broad enough for both? Thou art not so bad a republican as to arrogate
all Paris to thyself!"

"Go on first, then. I make way for thee."

The man bowed, doffed his hat politely, and passed forward. The next
moment Glyndon plunged into a winding lane, and fled fast through a
labyrinth of streets, passages, and alleys. By degrees he composed
himself, and, looking behind, imagined that he had baffled the pursuer;
he then, by a circuitous route, bent his way once more to his home. As
he emerged into one of the broader streets, a passenger, wrapped in
a mantle, brushing so quickly by him that he did not observe his
countenance, whispered, "Clarence Glyndon, you are dogged,--follow
me!" and the stranger walked quickly before him. Clarence turned, and
sickened once more to see at his heels, with the same servile smile
on his face, the pursuer he fancied he had escaped. He forgot the
injunction of the stranger to follow him, and perceiving a crowd
gathered close at hand, round a caricature-shop, dived amidst them, and,
gaining another street, altered the direction he had before taken, and,
after a long and breathless course, gained without once more seeing the
spy, a distant quartier of the city.

Here, indeed, all seemed so serene and fair that his artist eye, even
in that imminent hour, rested with pleasure on the scene. It was a
comparatively broad space, formed by one of the noble quays. The Seine
flowed majestically along, with boats and craft resting on its surface.
The sun gilt a thousand spires and domes, and gleamed on the white
palaces of a fallen chivalry. Here fatigued and panting, he paused an
instant, and a cooler air from the river fanned his brow. "Awhile, at
least, I am safe here," he murmured; and as he spoke, some thirty paces
behind him, he beheld the spy. He stood rooted to the spot; wearied and
spent as he was, escape seemed no longer possible,--the river on one
side (no bridge at hand), and the long row of mansions closing up the
other. As he halted, he heard laughter and obscene songs from a house a
little in his rear, between himself and the spy. It was a cafe fearfully
known in that quarter. Hither often resorted the black troop of
Henriot,--the minions and huissiers of Robespierre. The