down,--jumbling in the
Abyss!

The thick shades of Night are falling. Postillions crack the whip: the
Royal Berline is through Clermont, where Colonel Comte de Damas got a
word whispered to it; is safe through, towards Varennes; rushing at the
rate of double drink-money: an Unknown 'Inconnu on horseback'
shrieks earnestly some hoarse whisper, not audible, into the rushing
Carriage-window, and vanishes, left in the night. (Campan, ii. 159.)
August Travellers palpitate; nevertheless overwearied Nature sinks every
one of them into a kind of sleep. Alas, and Drouet and Clerk Guillaume
spur; taking side-roads, for shortness, for safety; scattering abroad
that moral-certainty of theirs; which flies, a bird of the air carrying
it!

And your rigorous Quartermaster spurs; awakening hoarse trumpet-tone,
as here at Clermont, calling out Dragoons gone to bed. Brave Colonel de
Damas has them mounted, in part, these Clermont men; young Cornet
Remy dashes off with a few. But the Patriot Magistracy is out here at
Clermont too; National Guards shrieking for ball-cartridges; and the
Village 'illuminates itself;'--deft Patriots springing out of bed;
alertly, in shirt or shift, striking a light; sticking up each his
farthing candle, or penurious oil-cruise, till all glitters and
glimmers; so deft are they! A camisado, or shirt-tumult, every where:
stormbell set a-ringing; village-drum beating furious generale, as
here at Clermont, under illumination; distracted Patriots pleading and
menacing! Brave young Colonel de Damas, in that uproar of distracted
Patriotism, speaks some fire-sentences to what Troopers he has:
"Comrades insulted at Sainte-Menehould; King and Country calling on
the brave;" then gives the fire-word, Draw swords. Whereupon, alas, the
Troopers only smite their sword-handles, driving them further home! "To
me, whoever is for the King!" cries Damas in despair; and gallops, he
with some poor loyal Two, of the subaltern sort, into the bosom of
the Night. (Proces-verbal du Directoire de Clermont in Choiseul, p.
189-95.)

Night unexampled in the Clermontais; shortest of the year; remarkablest
of the century: Night deserving to be named of Spurs! Cornet Remy, and
those Few he dashed off with, has missed his road; is galloping for
hours towards Verdun; then, for hours, across hedged country, through
roused hamlets, towards Varennes. Unlucky Cornet Remy; unluckier Colonel
Damas, with whom there ride desperate only some loyal Tw