obtruded themselves over and over again, countless times. Neither

were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no fear.

Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what

to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to

the few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was

more like the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his

own.

The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks

struck the numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for

ever, ten gone for ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to

pass away. After a hard contest with the eccentric action of

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thought which had last perplexed him, he had got the better of it.

He walked up and down softly repeating their names to himself.

The worst of the strife was over. He could walk up and down, free

from distracting fancies, praying for himself and for them.

Twelve gone for ever.

He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he

knew he would be summoned some time earlier. inasmuch as the

tumbrils jolted heavily and slowly through the streets. Therefore,

he resolved to keep Two before his mind, as the hour, and so to

strengthen himself in the interval that he might be able, after that

time. to strengthen others.

Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast,

a very different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro

at La Force, he heard One struck away from him, without

surprise. The hour had measured like most other hours. Devoutly

thankful to Heaven for his recovered self-possession, he thought,

“There is but another now,” and turned to walk again.

Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.

The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was

opened, or as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: “He

has never seen me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in

alone; I wait near. Lose no time!”

The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood

before him face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a

smile on his features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney

Carton.

There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that,

for the moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition

of his own imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took

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the prisoner’s hand, and it was his real grasp.

“Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?” he

said.

“I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now.

You are not”the apprehension came suddenly into his mind“a

prisoner?”

“No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the

keepers here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from