the fallen figure. "So afflicted to find that
his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of
Sainte Guillotine?"

"A good patriot," said the other, "could
hardly have been more afflicted if the Aristocrat
had drawn a blank."

They raised the unconscious figure, placed it
on a litter they had brought to the door, and
bent to carry it away.

"The time is short, Evrémonde," said the Spy,
in a warning voice.

"I know it well," answered Carton. "Be
careful of my friend, I entreat you, and leave
me."

"Come, then, my children," said Barsad.
"Lift him, and come away!"

The door closed, and Carton was left alone.
Straining his powers of listening to the utmost,
he listened for any sound that might denote
suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys
turned, doors clashed, footsteps passed along
distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry
made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more
freely in a little while, he sat down at the
table, and listened again until the clocks
struck Two.

Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he
divined their meaning, then began to be audible.
Several doors were opened in succession, and
finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his
hand, looked in, merely saying, "Follow me,
Evrémonde!" and he followed into a large dark
room, at a distance. It was a dark winter
day, and what with the shadows within, and
what with the shadows without, he could but
dimly discern the others who were brought
there to have their arms bound. Some were
standing; some seated. Some were lamenting,
and in restless motion; but, these were few.
The great majority were silent and still, looking
fixedly at the ground.

As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while
some of the fifty-two were brought in after him,
one man stopped in passing, to embrace him, as
having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him
with a great dread of discovery; but, the man
went on. A very few moments after that, a
young woman, with a slight girlish form, a
sweet spare face in which there was no vestige
of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes,
rose from the seat where he had observed her
sitting, and came to speak to him.

"Citizen Evrémonde," she said, touching him
with her cold hand. "I am a poor little
seamstress who was with you in La Force."

He murmured for answer: ''True. I forget
what you were accused of?"

"Plots. Though the just Heaven knows I
am innocent of any. Is it likely? Who would
think of plotting with a poor little weak creature
like me?"

The forlorn smile with which she said it, so
touched him that tears started from his eyes.

''I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evrémonde,
but I have done nothing. I am not unwilling
to die, if the Republic, which is to do so much
good to us poor, will profit by my death; but I
do not know how that can be, Citizen
Evrémonde. Such a poor weak little creature!"

As the last thing on earth that his heart was
to warm and soften to, it warmed and softened
to this pitiable girl.

"I heard you were released, Citizen
Evrémonde. I hoped it was true?"

"It was. But, I was again taken and
condemned."

"If I may ride with you, Citizen Evrémonde,
will you let me hold your hand? I am not
afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give
me more courage."

As the patient eyes were lifted to his face,
he saw a sudden doubt in them, and then
astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-
worn young fingers, and touched his lips.

"Are you dying for him?" she whispered.

"And his wife and child. Hush! Yes."

"O you will let me hold your brave hand,
stranger?"

"Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last."

The same shadows that are falling on the
prison, are falling, in that same hour of the
early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd
about it, when a coach going out of Paris drives
up to be examined.

"Who goes here? Whom have we within?
Papers!"

The papers are handed out, and read.

"Alexandre Manette. Physician. French.
Which is he?"

This is he; this helpless, inarticulately
murmuring, wandering old man pointed out.

"Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his
right mind? The Revolution-fever will have
been too much for him?"

Greatly too much for him.

"Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His
daughter. French. Which is she?"

This is she.

"Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of
Evrémonde; is it not?"

It is.

"Hah! Evrémonde has an assignation
elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English. This is
she?"

She and no other.

"Kiss me, child of Evrémonde. Now, thou
hast kissed a good Republican; something new
in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton.
Advocate. English. Which is he?"

He lies here, in this corner of the carriage.
He, too, is pointed out.

"Apparently the English advocate is in a
swoon?"

It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air.
It is represented that he is not in strong health,
and has separated sadly from a friend who is
under the displeasure of the Republic.

"Is that all? It is not a great deal, that!
Many are under the displeasure of the Republic,
and must look out at the little window. Jarvis
Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?"