"I am he. Necessarily, being the last."

It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the
previous questions. It is Jarvis Lorry who has
alighted and stands with his hand on the coach
door, replying to a group of officials. They
leisurely walk round the carriage and leisurely
mount the box, to look at what little luggage it
carries on the roof; the country-people hanging
about, press nearer to the coach-doors and
greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its
mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it
may touch the wife of an aristocrat who has gone
to the Guillotine.

"Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, counter-
signed."

"One can depart, citizen?"

"One can depart. Forward, my postilions!
A good journey!"

"I salute you, citizens.—And the first
danger passed!"

These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as
he clasps his hands, and looks upward. There is
terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there is
the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.

"Are we not going too slowly? Can they
not be induced to go faster?" asks Lucie,
clinging to the old man.

"It would seem like flight, my darling. I
must not urge them too much: it would rouse
suspicion."

"Look back, look back, and see if we are
pursued!"

"The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we
are not pursued."

Houses in twos and threes pass by us,
solitary farms, ruinous buildings, dye-works
tanneries and the like, open country, avenues of
leafless trees. The hard uneven pavement is
under us, the soft deep mud is on either side.
Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to
avoid the stones that clatter us and shake us,
and sometimes we stick in ruts and sloughs
there. The agony of our impatience is then so
great, that in our wild alarm and hurry we are
for: getting out and running—hiding—doing
anything but stopping.

Out of the open country, in again among
ruinous buildings, solitary farms, dye-works
tanneries and the like, cottages in twos and
threes, avenues of leafless trees. Have these
men deceived us, and taken us back by another
road? Is not this the same place twice over?
Thank Heaven no. A village. Look back,
look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush;
the posting-house.

Leisurely, our four horses are taken out;
leisurely, the coach stands in the little street,
bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it
of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses
come into visible existence, one by one;
leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and
plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the
old postilions count their money, make wrong
additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results. All
the time, our overfraught hearts are beating
at a rate that would far outstrip the fastest gallop
of the fastest horses ever foaled.

At length the new postilions are in their
saddles, and the old are left, behind. We are
through the village, up the hill, and down the
hill, and on the low watery grounds. Suddenly,
the postilions exchange speech with animated
gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up,
almost on their haunches. We are pursued!

"Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak
then!"

"What is it?" asks Mr. Lorry, looking out
at window.

"How many did they say?"

"I do not understand you."

"—At the last post. How many to the
Guillotine to-day?"

"Fifty-two."

"I said so! A brave number! My fellow-
citizen here, would have it forty-two; ten more
heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes
handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop
then!"

The night comes on dark. He moves more;
he is beginning to revive, and to speak intelligibly;
he thinks they are still together; he
asks him, by his name, what he has in his hand.
O pity us, kind Heaven, and help us! Look out,
look out, and see if we are pursued.

The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds
are flying after us, and the moon is plunging
after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit
of us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing
else.

DRIFT.

SANCTUARY-ARREST FOR DEBT.

LIKE all the dispensations of the earlier
English Church, the right of " sanctuary" was
so distorted from its original conditions that it
proved a contention, grievance, point of quarrel,
and stumbling-block between the ecclesiastics
and the laity, especially the feudal chiefs who
held any law rather cheap. The privilege, which
had belonged to every church during the earlier
ages of Christianity, of sheltering the criminal,
originated, says the editor of the Chronicon
Monasterii de Abingdon, at a time when every
man went armed, when human life was little
valued, when it was considered meritorious to
avenge upon the spot every wrong, imaginary or
real, when the opportunities of escape from the
pursuit of justice were many, when the law
indeed was slow of foot and weak of hand. It
was a revival of that earlier law which had
provided a place of refuge " that the slayer might
flee thither that should kill his neighbour
unawares, and hated him not in times past, and
that fleeing thither he might live." What the
cities of refuge had been to the Jew, the Church
was to the Christian.

As the power of the Church waned, this
immunity as a consequence was disregarded, nay,
was set aside altogether. In the days of Richard
the Second, John of Gaunt, the fourth son of
Edward the Third, by his Queen Philippa,
"feudal to the core," and a staunch friend of the
reformer John Wiclif, openly violated the privilege