my own will?”

“You are a cursed emigrant,” cried a farrier, making at him in a

furious manner through the press, hammer in hand; “and you are

a cursed aristocrat!”

The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the

rider’s bridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly

said, “Let him be; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.”

“Judged!” repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. “Ay! and

condemned as a traitor.” At this the crowd roared approval.

Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse’s head

to the yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle

looking on, with the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as

he could make his voice heard:

“Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not

a traitor.”

“He lies!” cried the smith. “He is a traitor since the decree. His

life is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!”

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At that instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the

crowd, which another instant would have brought upon him, the

postmaster turned his horse into the yard, the escort rode in close

upon his horse’s flanks, and the postmaster shut and barred the

crazy double gates. The farrier struck a blow upon them with his

hammer, and the crowd groaned; but no more was done.

“What is this decree that the smith spoke of?” Darnay asked the

postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in

the yard.

“Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.”

“When passed?”

“On the fourteenth.”

“The day I left England!”

“Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be

othersif there are not alreadybanishing all emigrants, and

condemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when

he said your life was not your own.”

“But there are no such decrees yet?”

“What do I know!” said the postmaster, shrugging his

shoulders; “there may be, or there will be. It is all the same. What

would you have?”

They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the

night, and then rode forward again when all the town was asleep.

Among the many wild changes observable on familiar things

which made this wild ride unreal, not the least was the seeming

rarity of sleep. After long and lonely spurring over dreary roads,

they would come to a cluster of poor cottages, not steeped in

darkness, but all glittering with lights, and would find the people,

in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night, circling hand in hand

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round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn up together singing

a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in Beauvais that