hands,"that no one near and dear to me is in
this dreadful town to-night. May He have
mercy on all who are in danger!"

Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate
sounded, and he thought, "They have come
back!" and sat listening. But, there was no
loud irruption into the court-yard as he had
expected, and he heard the gate clash again, and
all was quiet.

The nervousness and dread that were upon
him inspired that vague uneasiness respecting
the Bank, which a great charge would naturally
awaken, with such feelings roused. It was
well guarded, and he got up to go among the
trusty people who were watching it, when his
door suddenly opened, and two figures rushed
in, at sight of which he fell back in amazement.

Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms
stretched out to him, and with that old look of
earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that
it seemed as though it had been stamped upon
her face expressly to give force and power to it
in this one passage of her life.

"What is this!" cried Mr. Lorry, breathless
and confused. "What is the matter? Lucie!
Manette! What has happened? What has
brought you here? What is it?"

With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness
and wildness, she panted out in his arms,
imploringly, "O my dear friend! My husband!"

"Your husband, Lucie?"

"Charles."

"What of Charles?"

"Here."

"Here, in Paris?"

"Has been here, some days—three or four—
I don't know how many—I can't collect my
thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him
here unknown to us; he was stopped at the
barrier, and sent to prison."

The old man uttered an irrepressible cry.
Almost at the same moment, the bell of the
great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet
and voices came pouring into the court-yard.

"What is that noise?" said the Doctor, turning
towards the window.

"Don't look!" cried Mr. Lorry. "Don't
look out! Manette, for your life, don't touch
the blind!"

The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the
fastening of the window, and said, with a cool,
bold smile:

"My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this
city. I have been a Bastille prisoner. There is
no patriot in Paris—in Paris? In France—who,
knowing me to have been a prisoner in the
Bastille would touch me, except to overwhelm me
with embraces, or carry me in triumph. My old
pain has given me a power that has brought
us through the barrier, and gained us news of
Charles there, and brought us here. I knew
it would be so; I knew I could help Charles
out of all danger; I told Lucie so.—What is
that noise?" His hand was again upon the
window.

"Don't look!" cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely
desperate. "No, Lucie, my dear, nor you!"
He got his arm round her, and held her. "Don't
be so terrified, my love. I solemnly swear to
you that I know of no harm having happened to
Charles; that I had no suspicion even, of his
being in this fatal place. What prison is he in?"

"La Force."

"La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you
were brave and serviceable in your life—and you
were always both—you will compose yourself
now, to do exactly as I bid you; for, more
depends upon it than you can think, or I can say.
There is no help for you in any action on your
part to-night; you cannot possibly stir out. I
say this, because what I must bid you to do for
Charles's sake, is the hardest thing to do of all.
You must instantly be obedient, still, and
quiet. You must let me put you in a room at
the back here. You must leave your father and
me alone for two minutes, and as there are
Life and Death in the world you must not
delay."

"I will be submissive to you. I see in your
face that you know I can do nothing else than
this. I know you are true."

The old man kissed her, and hurried her into
his room, and turned the key; then, came hurrying
back to the Doctor, and opened the window
and partly opened the blind, and put his hand
upon the Doctor's arm, and looked out with him
into the court-yard.

Looked out upon a throng of men and women:
not enough in number, or near enough, to
fill the court-yard: not more than forty or fifty
in all. The people in possession of the house
had let them in at the gate, and they had rushed
in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently
been set up there for their purpose, as in a
convenient and retired spot.

But, such awful workers, and such awful
work!

The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning
at it madly were two men, whose faces, as
their long hair flapped back when the whirlings
of the grindstone brought their faces up, were
more horrible and cruel than the visages of the
wildest savages in their most barbarous
disguise. False eyebrows and false moustaches
were stuck upon them, and their hideous
countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all
awry with howling, and all staring and glaring
with beastly excitement and want of sleep.
As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted
locks now flung forward over their eyes, now
flung backward over their necks, some women held
wine to their mouths that they might drink; and
what with dropping blood, and what with dropping
wine, and what with the stream of sparks struck
out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere
seemed gore and fire. The eye could not detect
one creature in the group, free from the smear of
blood. Shouldering one another to get next at
the sharpening-stone, were men stripped to the
waist, with the stain all over their limbs and
bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain
upon those rags; men devilishly set off with
spoils of women's lace and silk and ribbon, with