Life must hush at last—they came forward to
raise the father and daughter from the ground.
He had gradually drooped to the floor, and lay
there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled
down with him, that his head might lie upon
her arm; and her hair drooping over him
curtained him from the light.

"If, without disturbing him," she said, raising
her hand to Mr. Lorry as he stooped over them,
after repeated blowings of his nose, "all could
be arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so
that, from the very door, he could be taken
away——"

"But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?"
asked Mr. Lorry.

"More fit for that, I think, than to remain in
this city, so dreadful to him."

"It is true," said Defarge, who was kneeling
to look on and hear. "More than that;
Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of
France. Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-
horses?"

"That's business," said Mr. Lorry, resuming
on the shortest notice his methodical manners;
"and if business is to be done, I had better
do it."

"Then be so kind," urged Miss Manette,
"as to leave us here. You see how composed
he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave
him with me now. Why should you be? If
you will lock the door to secure us from
interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him,
when you come back, as quiet as you leave him.
In any case, I will take care of him until you
return, and then we will remove him straight."

Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather
disinclined to this course, and in favour of one of
them remaining. But, as there were not only
carriage and horses to be seen to, but travelling
papers; and as time pressed, for the day was
drawing to an end, it came at last to their
hastily dividing the business that was necessary
to be done, and hurrying away to do it.

Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter
laid her head down on the hard ground close at
the father's side, and watched him. The darkness
deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet,
until a light gleamed through the chinks in the
wall.

Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made
all ready for the journey, and had brought with
them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers,
bread and meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur
Defarge put this provender, and the lamp he
carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was
nothing else in the garret but a pallet bed), and
he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and
assisted him to his feet.

No human intelligence could have read the
mysteries of his mind, in the scared blank
wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had
happened, whether he recollected what they had
said to him, whether he knew that he was free,
were questions which no sagacity could have
solved. They tried speaking to him; but, he
was so confused, and so very slow to answer,
that they took fright at his bewilderment, and
agreed for the time to tamper with him no more.
He had a wild, lost manner of occasionally
clasping his head in his hands, that had not been
seen in him before; yet, he had some pleasure
in the mere sound of his daughter's voice,
and invariably turned to it when she spoke.

In the submissive way of one long accustomed
to obey under coercion, he ate and drank
what they gave him to eat and drink, and put
on the cloak and other wrappings that they gave
him to wear. He readily responded to his
daughter's drawing her arm through his, and
took—and kept—her hand in both of his own.

They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge
going first with the lamp, Mr. Lorry closing
the little procession. They had not traversed
many steps of the long main staircase when he
stopped, and stared at the roof and round at the
walls.

"You remember the place, my father? You
remember coming up here?"

"What did you say?"

But, before she could repeat the question, he
murmured an answer as if she had repeated it.

"Remember? No, I don't remember. It was
so very long ago."

That he had no recollection whatever of his
having been brought from his prison to that
house, was apparent to them. They heard him
mutter, "One hundred and five, North Tower;"
and when he looked about him, it evidently was
for the strong fortress-walls which had long
encompassed him. On their reaching the courtyard,
he instinctively altered his tread, as being
in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there
was no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage
waiting in the open street, he dropped his
daughter's hand and clasped his head again.

No crowd was about the door; no people
were discernible at any of the many windows;
not even a chance passer-by was in the street.
An unnatural silence and desertion reigned
there. Only one soul was to be seen, and that
was Madame Defarge—who leaned against the
door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.

The prisoner had got into the coach, and his
daughter had followed him, when Mr. Lorry's
feet were arrested on the step by his asking,
miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the
unfinished shoes. Madame Defarge immediately
called to her husband that she would get them,
and went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through
the court-yard. She quickly brought them down
and handed them in;—and immediately
afterwards leaned against the door-post, knitting,
and saw nothing.

Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word
"To the Barrier!" The postilion cracked his
whip, and they clattered away under the feeble
over-swinging lamps.

Under the over-swinging lamps—swinging ever
brighter in the better streets, and ever dimmer
in the worse—and by lighted shops, gay crowds,
illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre doors, to
one of the city gates. Soldiers with lanterns,
at the guard-house there. "Your papers,
travellers!" "See here then, Monsieur the