The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling in

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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 Evremonde; is it

not?”

It is.

“Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her

child. English. This is she?”

She and no other.

“Kiss me, child of Evremonde. 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.

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“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?”

“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