minutes, some mortar and dust came dropping down, which he

averted his face to avoid; and in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and

in a crevice in the chimney into which his weapon had slipped or

wrought itself, he groped with a cautious touch.

“Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?”

“Nothing.”

“Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So!

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Light them, you!”

The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot.

Stooping again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it

burning, and retraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to

recover their sense of hearing as they came down, until they were

in the raging flood once more.

They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself.

Saint Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper

foremost in the guard upon the governor who had defended the

Bastille and shot the people. Otherwise, the governor would not be

marched to the Hotel de Ville for judgment. Otherwise, the

governor would escape, and the people’s blood (suddenly of some

value, after many years of worthlessness) be unavenged.

In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed

to encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and

red decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was

a woman’s. “See, there is my husband!” she cried, pointing him

out. “See Defarge!” She stood immovable close to the grim old

officer, and remained immovable close to him; remained

immovable close to him through the streets, as Defarge and the

rest bore him along; remained immovable close to him when he

was got near his destination, and began to be struck at from

behind; remained immovable close to him when the longgathering

rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him

when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put

her foot upon his neck, and with her cruel knifelong ready

hewed off his head.

The hour was come when Saint Antoine was to execute his

horrible idea of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could

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be and do. Saint Antoine’s blood was up, and the blood of tyranny

and domination by the iron hand was downdown on the steps of

the Hotel de Ville where the governor’s body laydown on the

sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge where she had trodden on the

body to steady it for mutilation. “Lower the lamp yonder!” cried

Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new means of death; “here

is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!” The swinging sentinel

was posted, and the sea rushed on.

The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive

upheaving of wave against wave, whose depths were yet

unfathomed and whose forces were yet unknown. The remorseless

sea of turbulently swaying shapes, voices of vengeance, and faces