manner of a tired man, who had wandered and
struggled and got lost, but who at length struck
into his road and saw its end.

Long ago, when he had been famous among
his earliest competitors as a youth of great
promise, he had followed his father to the grave.
His mother had died, years before. These solemn
words, which had been read at his father's grave,
arose in his mind as he went down the dark
streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon
and the clouds sailing on high above him. "I
am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord:
he that believeth in me, though he were dead,
yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
believeth in me, shall never die."

In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night,
with natural sorrow rising in him for the sixty-
three who had been that day put to death, and
or to-morrow's victims then awaiting their
doom in the prisons, and still of to-morrow's
and to-morrow's, the chain of association that
brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's
anchor from the deep, might have been easily
found. He did not seek it, but repeated them
and went on.

With a solemn interest in the lighted
windows where the people were going to rest,
forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors
surrounding them; in the towers of the
churches, where no prayers were said, for the
popular revulsion had even travelled that length
of self-destruction from years of priestly
impostors, plunderers, and profligates; in the distant
burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon the
gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols;
and in the streets along which the sixties rolled
to a death which had become so common and
material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting
Spirit ever arose among the people out of all
the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn
interest in the whole life and death of the city
settling down to its short nightly pause in fury;
Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for the
lighter streets.

Few coaches were abroad, for riders in
coaches were liable to be suspected, and
gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put
on heavy shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres
were all well filled, and the people poured cheerfully
out as he passed, and went chatting home.
At one of the theatre doors, there was a little
girl with a mother, looking for a way across the
street through the mud. He carried the child
over, and before the timid arm was loosed from
his neck asked her for a kiss.

"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the
Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were
dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth
and believeth in me, shall never die."

Now, that the streets were quiet, and the
night wore on, the words were in the echoes of
his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm
and steady, he sometimes repeated them to
himself as he walked; but, he heard them always.

The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the
bridge listening to the water as it splashed the
river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the
picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral
shone bright in the light of the moon, the day
came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the
sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the
stars, turned pale and died, and for a little while
it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to
Death's dominion.

But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike
those words, that burden of the night, straight
and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.
And looking along them, with reverently shaded
eyes, a bridge, of light appeared to span the air
between him and the sun, while the river
sparkled under it.

The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain,
was like a congenial friend, in the morning stillness.
He walked by the stream, far from the
houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun
fell asleep on the bank. When he awoke and was
afoot again, he lingered there yet a little longer,
watching an eddy that turned and turned
purposeless, until the stream absorbed it, and carried
it on to the sea.—"Like me!"

A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened
colour of a dead leaf, then glided into his view,
floated by him, and died away. As its silent
track in the water disappeared, the prayer that
had broken up out of his heart for a merciful
onsideration of all his poor blindnesses and
errors, ended in the words, "I am the resurrection
and the life."

Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back,
and it was easy to surmise where the good old
man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing
but a little coffee, ate some bread, and, having
washed and changed to refresh himself, went out
to the place of trial.

The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the
black sheep—whom many fell away from in
dread—pressed him into an obscure corner among
the crowd. Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor
Manette was there. She was there, sitting beside
her father.

When her husband was brought in, she
turned a look upon him, so sustaining, so
encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying
tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it
called the healthy blood into his face, brightened
his glance, and animated his heart. If there
had been any eyes to notice the influence of her
look, on Sydney Carton, it would have been seen
to be the same influence exactly.

Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little
or no order of procedure, ensuring to any
accused person any reasonable hearing. There
could have been no such Revolution, if all laws,
forms, and ceremonies, had not first been so
monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance
of the Revolution was to scatter them all to the
winds.

Every eye was turned to the jury. The same
determined patriots and good republicans as
yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow
and the day after. Eager and prominent among
them, one man with a craving face, and his
fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose
appearance gave great satisfaction to the